Mending Broken Souls
by bellatrixD
Summary: He was broken. She was perfect. But perfect didn't exist. And yet, he would choose the illusion over reality any day, until the terrors of life revealed hope through someone equally broken. Fred's death was only the beginning of the rollercoaster known as George Weasley's life.
1. Five Years Later

**Do you know how hard it is to come up with a title? And chapters? Very. Short first chapter - think of it as an extended summary.**

**Disclaimer: All the original characters belong to the wonderful imagination of a certain JK Rowling. OC's and this plot are from me.**

**Enjoy!**

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Mending Broken Souls: Five Years Later

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High pitched giggling and drunken slurs cut through the crisp night air as the entwined figures stumbled out of the excited pub and down the Alley, both with one destination in mind. Of course, if either were in their right mind they could have easily apparated there, but since they weren't, they held onto each other firmly, hands wandering where they would not dare to during the day in public view, and staggered to 93 Diagon Alley.

Diagon Alley was a colourful wonderland during the day, with bustling shops bursting to the brim with customers; excited children running wild and free, their fretful parents never too far behind; music of laughter and playful bantering sparking the air with excited energy; stray animals scurrying through busy legs away from the messy hands of toddlers who could not hold their ice cream.

Yes, Diagon Alley was an impressive sight, even to wizards. The popular street hidden from muggle eyes was the heart of all social activity in the wizarding world. And why wouldn't it be? Old and new shops flourished after the war, built up from nothing and now reaching the high heavens. Street performers had even taken to entertaining curious eyes, evolving muggle circus clowns to a whole new level with their clever transfiguration and charms, and even advertising the latest from the famous joke shop.

And then there was the Diagon Alley few people witnessed.

When the sun bid farewell and the moon awoke the Alley was left with an eerie silence broken by pounding music blasting out of clubs. Diagon Alley was home to two new clubs, its neon lights flashing high and low and all around in the darkness, illuminating shadowed corners filled with masked figures away from the wandering eyes of patrolling aurors in Knockturn Alley. The odd disfigured beggar cackling to the moon, crouched on the floor mumbling incoherently and staring down anyone who dared to pass. Ugly, dismembered strays shrieking into spilling bins for scraps.

The nightlife was never consistent, however. Some days the ugly beggars and strays found shelter for the night; the shifty dealers drifted to Hogsmeade to avoid suspicious aurors; or the clubs had a quiet night on a weeknight and the music wasn't so loud or the lights so bright.

But the most common scene which repeated itself every night – or rather most nights…either way it occurred a lot – was the man stumbling out of The Leaky Cauldron, sometimes with a woman on his arm, sometimes without; sometimes even with another man dragging him through the streets to the safety of the famous Diagon Alley store, still thriving with one tanked owner. One. For the other had died tragically five years ago.

And George Weasley never recovered. Only coped.

To his credit, he had considerably sobered from the early days of his depression and mourning, no longer wasting away his days deep inside a strange woman or a bottle of the sharpest firewhiskey. His family supported him as much as was possible, bearing in mind they too had lost a brother, a son. But their faces betrayed their thoughts, and George couldn't deal with that. Where their faces leaked out the truth, George was suddenly brought back to the present, to what life was, how it changed and how it would never be again. And he couldn't have that.

So: distractions.

And that was how he'd spent many a night since the loss of his twin, his other half. Very rarely was he seen alone; he would arrive with a brother or two, he would spend the night brooding, drinking himself dull until he'd be so blinded he would gladly accept the company of the hungry stares that trained on him as soon as he stepped foot into the lively pub. If he were intoxicated enough, which many of the ladies made sure of, he would bed them at his flat. Always at his flat; that never left his mind. If this were to fail, a rough shove in his sour mood would send them away – far enough to give him some breathing space that was. These were the distractions that worked the most, he found.

But tonight her plan didn't fail. And she was well on her way to shag George Weasley.


	2. Wicked Amy

**This occurs five years after the Battle of Hogwarts so it is set in 2003.**

**Hope you enjoy**

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Mending Broken Souls: Wicked Amy

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The coffee burned his mouth and down his throat, clutching his chest as he chugged it down, numb to the heat. The early morning sun was barely peeking above the buildings, but glowing enough to cast a shadow on the slumbering brunette. The blanket hugged her slight curves and revealed her bare back, glistening with the remaining sweat from only hours ago. With heavy feet, George Weasley grunted and shuffled out of his room, clad only in a thin t-shirt and trousers, and made his way down to his shop.

It was far too early for the owls to post the newspapers, so George settled for draining his coffee at his workbench and pulled out his blueprints for new inventions despite his gnawing headache. From the corner of his eye he could see the bright bottle of hangover potion his brother no doubt left for him. With a deep sigh George grabbed it and walked through the door separating the backroom from the main floor. He unlocked the front door and shuffled to an alley off to the side, ignoring the cold air nipping at his exposed skin and the stones beneath his bare feet.

Knocked over bins and littered rubbish greeted him, and the resident stray pack of cats hissed and stretched in the shadows, some slowly stalking his way. With numb fingers George unscrewed the cap and spilled the contents onto the ground, relishing in the splashing on the concrete. He never drank the hangover potion left for him. His headache, although painful, was always welcome. It distracted him. And George Weasley treasured distractions.

The cats ran forward and sipped at the spilled potion, purring and humming in contentment. A small cat rubbed itself against George's leg and sat down on his feet, spreading warmth through him. The cat was grey with black stripes and had dull green eyes. He recognised it immediately. There were three other cats which looked almost identical, with only small differences in the patterns on their paws, faces and tails. This cat had one significant difference that could not be missed: it had three legs.

George only ever saw the cat from a distance. Regardless of its disability he did not feel in any way responsible for caring for it, never bothering to take a few minutes out of his day to feed it a little, rather, allowing the damn thing to scuffle for scraps in an act of survival of the fittest. He did not even like cats, his first real experience with one when his Aunt Muriel's fat snowy feline hissed and bit him when he took the last sausage at only three years old. His more memorable experience was when Crookshanks clawed him and left him a bloody mess in his fifth year. But he could not deny the sympathy that he felt for the cat. He could relate to it on some level; him missing an ear and it missing a leg, no doubt a casualty from the war.

The small cat purred and nuzzled his foot. George sniffed and shook his leg, ridding the cat. It squeaked _meow_ and looked up at him with its big eyes, its head tilted to one side and its ear twitching. Its right ear.

George scowled. "What?" he snapped, conscious of the mangled skin on the right side of his head. Merlin, he really hated cats.

The relatively new clock suspended in Diagon Alley chimed six times. George turned away and made his way back to the shop, cursing under his breath about stupid animals.

The Ministry owls soared high in the awakening pink glow of the sky. One swooped down before George and dropped a Daily Prophet by his feet before flying away. He picked it up and went straight to the backroom, pulling his magenta robe off the hook and wrapping it around himself. He placed the newspaper down on a tray, replacing it with the old paper that had generated a rather distinct smell of piss and dust, and set the pygmy puffs on it before returning to his blueprints covered in drawings and scribbles.

Ron pushed open the door to the backroom but halted it before it slammed into the wall behind it a while later. He sent a sheepish smile George's way before closing it gently.

"Mornin'," the youngest male Weasley greeted. His eyes fleetingly looked over to the hangover potion and saw it empty. "Got you some breakfast," he said, putting a bag on the workbench beside his brother and taking out smaller bags and boxes. "Didn't know what you felt like so I got a bit of…well everything."

George's eyes never left his parchment as his quill hurried over it. "'Kay," he muttered absentmindedly, vaguely taking in the smell of fresh pastries and coffee.

"What's that?" Ron asked, indicating to the parchment George was drawing on.

George scribbled once more and then threw the quill down, heaving out a breath and pushing it away to make room for the food. "New idea I got from Charlie over the weekend. This lemon?"

"Yup," Ron answered through a mouthful of pecan and maple syrup plait. "What's the idea?"

"Lava Lollies. Just started on it," George nodded, drinking the coffee out of the foam cup. "Melts when you lick your way to the middle and burns your mouth. Smokes as well, even comes out the orifices in your face. Thinking of other versions, too."

Ron nodded and the brothers ate their breakfast in silence. George checked the time on his watch, the new one from Percy just over four years ago, and saw that it was now ten forty-eight. The watch was far too large and expensive – something he and Fred would have spent hours talking about owning once upon a time. The only thing missing was the dancing veela inscribed in the middle.

"Verity's opened up shop already. Slow start," Ron informed him. He noticed the glance his older brother sent to the stairs that led to his flat. "Another one?" He asked, to which George winced and nodded curtly. "I've got this." He rubbed his hands free of crumbs and strode up the stairs purposefully, taking them two at a time. He returned moments later.

"Done already? That was quick," George commented, surprised. He had been expecting some sort of a scuffle; there was always one with Ron involved.

Ron gave a wry grin and shook his head, taking the seat opposite his brother. "No. She's singing in the shower. That new Weird Sisters song about Kneazles, and soul mates, and eternal love…or was it dancing pixies?" The desk _thumped _from the force of George's head and Ron licked the jam off his fingers and thumb. "Ginny should be here soon; she'll sort it out."

"Oh, thank Merlin," George breathed out, his head still resting on the table top.

A _pop_ resonated in the room just then, and, sure enough, Ginny Weasley appeared.

"Another one?" she asked in greeting, removing her cloak and hanging it up.

Ron muffled his laughter. Ginny rolled her eyes and strode up the stairs much the way Ron had done. The boys sat still and waited. A voice shrieked; glass shattered, and a loud _splash _sounded from the flat above. And then silence.

The young female Weasley smiled widely to her brothers as she skipped off the last few steps, pecked George on the cheek and stole the chocolate muffin from his hand, taking a large bite. The boys shared a glance, Ron's face quivering in amusement.

"Well?" he asked.

"Well, what?"

"She gone for good?"

Ginny giggled – always a sinister sound. "Oh yeah, definitely. Stupid bint dropped her towel the second she saw me. Must've thought I was you, George." George grimaced. "But she won't bother you again."

The occupants in the room knew exactly what that meant. Ginny's famous Bat Bogey hex was not to be contested, and you wouldn't want to be on the opposing end of her wand when she was in a temper – something all of her brothers had experienced at least once and wouldn't dare seduce again.

The three siblings sat in companionable silence eating brunch. Ron and Ginny would take a moment to engage in pleasantries to ask about their in-laws; the famous Boy Who Lived Twice, Harry Potter, (or dubbed by George as The Boy Who Just Won't Bloody Die), and the brightest witch of her age, Hermione Granger-Weasley, while George scribbled away on his Wheezes forms. The laughter and mini-explosions from the storefront occasionally entered when Verity opened the door to collect stock (the door was charmed against the noises so as not to disturb George when he was working).

Ginny didn't stay long, only leaving when she was sure her brother was alright. He was under no illusions – George knew the only reason one of his siblings visited everyday was to check up on him. But he was fine; had been fine for five years. Sure, the first few months after the…incident, were a nightmare – he was a dead man walking. When he was out of his room at The Burrow that was. He then moved to his flat; carefully avoiding Fred's room when he could help it.

But that was then. He was fine now. Fine.

"You coming over for dinner on Saturday?" Ron asked. The two had moved out to the storefront, George manning the counter while Ron restocked.

"Busy," George replied, handing over change to a customer and sending her off with a wink.

"What about Sunday? You look like you could do with some of mum's roast."

"No can do, large order to sort out for Halloween."

Ron scoffed. "You've been busy for the last few weeks, mate. And Halloween is ages away!"

"I want to get a start on it now – you know how much I hate late deadlines."

"Imagine you saying that back at school," Ron murmured, organising the last of the Whiz-bangs and then joining his brother behind the counter. "Look, everyone misses you. Just one dinner! It won't kill you."

George sighed deeply and ran a hand through his hair –long enough to cover the mesh of mangled flesh on the side of his head but shorter than it had been when he had been in his sixth year at Hogwarts. Not that he needed to conceal it anymore; there was only one Weasley twin now. No more confusion.

"Come on, mate. Vicky misses her funny uncle."

George winced, the pang in his heart evident for not having seen his niece in weeks – months even! He could never deny her anything, always spoiling her rotten whenever he could despite his mother's (and her mother's) protests. The little bouncing bundle of joy had kept George on his toes the minute he saw her in St Mungos Maternity Ward, when she gripped his thumb with swollen, tiny fingers and hugged it close as she slept. He was taken with her instantly, and from that moment a magical connection was born.

"Ok, fine. I'll go," Ron grinned. "But no guarantees I'll stay long!" George knew that wasn't true; he would stay as long as little Victoire would ask him to – unless he was driven insanely mad beforehand. Well, he had four days to dwell on anything and everything that could, and most probably would, go wrong.

The conversation moved on swiftly after that, then stopped altogether in the afternoon rush as the brothers and Verity were swamped with overexcited kids and fretting parents. The shop was so busy that George worked through his lunch break, but forced Ron and Verity to get their energy up.

By the end of the day George was ready to crawl up to his flat and lay about with a bottle of his finest, opting for a night in away from the pub to empty the buzz from his ears. Maybe, if he was lucky, Percy would pop over with some food.

Just as he settled onto the sofa in sweats, waiting patiently for his brother, a knock came from the back door leading out to the alley behind Wheezes.

"Oh, bloody hell, who is that," George grumbled. "Ron, I swear if you forgot your wand again…" He ambled across the living room/kitchenette, checking the time on his watch as he went. "What?" he demanded, opening the door wide enough for his head to peak through.

He was shocked to see a blushing brunette as opposed to his lanky brother.

"Oh, hi. Sorry to disturb you but I left my purse here earlier."

She shuffled in the cool night air, her loose cardigan, although thick, didn't seem to be doing much in keeping her warm. In all honesty, George was surprised he recognised her straight away.

"Yeah, sure. Come in. You, uh…remember where you left it?" he asked, opening the door wider to allow her in.

"Yeah. Last I saw…it was by…the…" she bent over and retrieved a silver purse from the floor beside the sofa nearest to the fireplace. "Floo," she finished.

An awkward silence surrounded them both, George observing his guest, drinking in everything his inebriated self glazed over while she stood rigidly, unsure of why she wasn't leaving now that she had her purse. He had never been in this position before – usually his guests had made sure to retrieve all their belongings before leaving.

The silence dragged on. It was George who broke it.

"Amy."

She quirked an eyebrow. "You remember my name."

"Of course I do," George frowned. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Well, I just assumed that you wouldn't have. Not after this morning."

It was true that George never before cared or bothered with remembering pesky details pertaining to girls, including their names, at first. But that was years ago, when he was off at the deep end.

It was at a family dinner at the Burrow when he had received a particularly nasty howler from a woman's brother yelling and cursing about how much of a disgrace he was; how awful his treatment to women was; and why he shouldn't pound George into oblivion for hurting his sister. The Burrow was left with a crackling electricity as all eyes turned to George's vacated seat, for he had apparated away as soon as the violent red letter shredded itself. Harry and Hermione went to diffuse the situation with the brother, Hermione vouching for George's usually impeccable conduct to women, but that he was stressed and clearly not in a good place.

His family had found him bawling on the dirt of Fred's grave cursing himself and pleading for forgiveness, when they finally agreed to an intervention. It was his father's sympathetic gaze and disappointed voice that brought him out of his depressed stupor. Not that his 'normal self' lasted long: after two months of being clean and sober – no distractions – he was back at it again, only this time he made sure to be more respectful.

But really, how respectful can one be when knowingly engaging in a one-night stand?

"How bad did my sister hex you?"

Amy scowled and turned her head away. "It took two hours for me to stop it."

Instinctively, George winced, knowing how bad a few minutes with the hex was. "I'm sorry about that." And he was. His stomach turned at the thought of having been so relieved earlier upon hearing the news of Ginny's success in removing her.

"It's fine, I guess I deserved it," she said, her eyes absorbing the surprising neatness of his living room, refusing to meet his gaze. The only pieces of clutter were parchment strewn on surfaces, a mug here and there and a stray sock.

"No. You didn't deserve it. That's stupid."

Something in his voice, perhaps the tone – stern and adamant – or the rough edge to his assurance caught her attention.

"Oh? Then why would she do it? I pursued you. It was me that overstayed my welcome. If you had wanted to see me you wouldn't have rushed off so fast, and it's my fault for ignoring that. Of course I deserved it."

She did not look apologetic in the least.

"And I'm still here!" she threw her arms up. "All I wanted to do was to retrieve my purse and what do I do? Keep on embarrassing myself. To none other than George bloody Weasley himself."

Amy made to leave but George caught her slim arm easily; it was surprisingly firm.

"Oi, don't be daft. I went along with it so it's just as much my fault as it is yours." George sighed. He really needed a drink. And his empty stomach was doing nothing for his mood. It was taking every ounce of energy for him to not clamp his hand over her mouth and chuck her out before he was finished. He had been lucky in getting weepers and walkers over the years, the girls who went through with it, cried a bit and then never bothered him again. Why did this one have to be different?

"But you were shit faced."

"Regardless of how with it I was I should not have acted so brashly. What my sister did was out of order."

Over the years at Hogwarts George liked to think that he and Fred had gathered an understanding of girls, what made them tick and what pissed them off. He had used this knowledge to make them swoon, and instead of having them follow him like mindless lovesick puppies until he broke them off, acted so that the girls pushed him away. No hard feelings left behind for either party, although some girls did eventually regret their decision to part with him – it was natural to be attracted to the physical regardless of the personality.

George let his hand trail down her arm and linked a long finger with hers.

"How 'bout I make it up to you?"

Amy lifted an eyebrow. "How?"

George could not believe he was doing this. "Dinner. Tomorrow?"_ Please say no, please say you have plans_, he chanted over and over again.

"Dinner? Tomorrow?" she looked dubious. "Why? You're not doing this because you pity me, are you? Because nor do I want, or need your pity."

Yes. "Hey," he tugged her finger. "I left the Leaky with you last night. Now, even though I was shitfaced, I still know when I see a pretty girl. And might I say, I have wonderful taste in women."

The words spilled from his mouth before he could filter them. Normally he would have made some sort of joke about whether she felt he was pitying her the previous night when they shared his bed, both times when she gasped beneath him and danced above him. But he wanted her to go. His headache was worse than ever, demanding his remedy of a drink to soothe the throbbing. And he could not deny that she was a pretty witch. No – gorgeous. What harm would another night do?

Amy was calculating his words and let slip a small smile. "Ok then. Dinner tomorrow."

"Great," George smiled.

"I should go now," she said, and walked over to the back door before turning around and addressing George again. "Where will we be going? I kind of need to know what to wear."

George fumbled around with his pockets; lifting up a finger to Amy (bear with, love), he ran back into the living room before returning with a quill in hand.

"Here," he handed it over to her and pushed his fist out, "Write down your address. I'll owl you the details."

Her gaze shifted between his hand and face, then neatly scripted her address onto the back of his hand. "I put down my work address as well – just in case I'm not home."

"Great," he said. George opened the door, "I'll see you tomorrow."

Amy nodded farewell with a smile matching George's, his wink broadening her upturned lips. He waited by the door minutes after her departure before slamming the door. He stretched out a loud groan, kicked a stray shoe across the room – _CRASH – _and pulled on his hair. Curses flew around his head as he scolded himself; he had always been a sucker for a pretty face.

"Why didn't she say no?"

"That is the last thing I would have ever imagined you saying."

George whipped around and was met with sky blue eyes.

"When did you get here?"

"In the middle of your imitation of a troll. Rather good, although I would not have expected anything less than perfect after hearing it my whole life," Percy shrugged. "Who is she?"

"Is that food?" George asked, eyeing the bag in his brother's hand. He could almost see the steam wafting around him, teasing his senses.

"Just some beef stew," Percy answered, making his way into the kitchen and grabbing the necessary utensils.

"It's a God send, that's what." George opened the boxes and inhaled the savoury aroma like a starved man.

"Skip out on lunch again?"

"Busy."

"Always is," Percy said.

"How's the missus and the little one?"

Ever since the birth of little Princess Victoire, George was mesmerised by children. Of course, owning a joke shop for children meant that he always held a soft spot for the little buggers, but the newest addition to the Weasley family stirred his heart in a way completely alien to anything he had felt before. Percy's first, Molly Weasley II, was the exact opposite to him. She was an incredibly behaved young toddler with a mischievous streak that could rival her uncles George and Fred.

He always loved hearing about the latest exploits of his nieces, but guilt always swept through him and hit him in the chest after realising he had missed them, every new development regardless how small or big. Whether it was a loose tooth, first use of accidental magic or a new chocolate frog card, he wanted to know.

An image surfaced of a little figure on his lap, giggling insanely as fingers played with his unkempt hair, legs swaying and a high voice struggling to formulate the correct words to regale the tale of turning her dad's hair to the exact same colour and shade of her mum's glittery new dress robes at Teddy's birthday party. In his other arm was a tiny baby, so small and fragile in his strong arm, listening to her cousin's story.

"Molly's great. Was thinking of bringing her down to the shop sometime soon – she starts giggling like mad at any noise; she cannot stand being in a quiet room anymore."

"Bring her around then! I can look after her for the day, so you don't have to worry about missing work and Audrey can have a relaxing day," George suggested. The forced smile on Percy's face, however, showed him it was a lost cause.

"I would, George, honestly. You know I would love nothing more than for Molly to see her uncle George again but –"

"Audrey doesn't trust me, I know," George finished, frowning into his butterbeer.

"No, George, of course she trust –"

"Leave it out, Perce. I can smell bullshit even if it is puffed over by that Seductive Siren perfume," George said, cleaning his bowl of beef stew and levitating it over to the sink where it dropped with a _thunk_.

"She does not use Seductive Siren…I think it's Mystique," Percy murmured, loud enough for George to hear. His spoon stopped halfway to his open mouth as he looked to George. "How do you know about Seductive Siren?"

"Katie was nagging me for weeks about it and then one day I found a bottle under the sofa." George laughed. "Got her to shut up for a day or two before she came around and hinted for a new broom, the greedy bint."

As he thought about it, he realised that encounter with his Hogwarts friend occurred months ago. What had stopped Katie from seeing him again? He had gotten used to her random weekly visits. And then there was guilt; his ghostly actions clouding over time without a second thought.

"So who were you talking to earlier? Other than yourself. By the way, you may want to that that is a sign of madness. Best to keep your one man conversations in your head to avoid someone informing St. Mungos."

"Just a girl," George replied absentmindedly, his thoughts busy constructing a letter to invite Katie, Lee and Oliver out for drinks some time.

"This late? They are usually gone by now. Or in there with you," he gestured to the bedroom with a tilt of his head.

George huffed. "She came back to get her purse." Percy sat still, unsatisfied with the vague response and stared until further information was relayed. George sighed, not even bothering to hide his aggravation. "And we're going out for dinner. Tomorrow."

"That is great." Percy frowned. "So…why were you yelling?"

Percy was never the brother to go to when a Weasley wanted advice or to unload on someone – he never had been. After all, he was pompous Percy, perfect prefect Percy. Even after returning with his family he never knew how to respond most times, shrugging off one sibling onto another despite his efforts. He was still learning. And for once, George knew he would understand exactly what he was feeling.

"I don't know if I'm ready, Perce. I felt horrible when she came back and started saying things, and looking at me all guarded. What if I screw up?"

The elder Weasley snorted. "You mean letting Ginny on her wasn't? Look, she agreed even after meeting the lunatic that we call a sister – do not tell her I said that. What more can go wrong? And it is not like you love her or anything, so should it matter so much? I was a mess when I first got together with Aud; I felt like I was betraying Fred and you. But you told me – what was it again? To get over it, grow some balls and stop looking for an excuse to sulk alone. Sulking with a warm body to hold is better than an empty pillow."

George spent much of the night pondering over his older brother's advice (and his own, in essence), glad he had decided to open up to him. Time in bed was spent tossing and turning and huffing and groaning as he thought of the millions of different scenarios that could take place, starting positively but then drowning into the deep where someone ends up dead or severely mutated. The last one George could not help but scoff at, the irony fulfilling his humour. He traced the skin of his missing ear lightly and wondered what could be worse. Not death. Death was a blissful sanctuary, a release of worldly pain and suffering.


	3. Backwards Baby Steps

**As you can see I am making the most of study leave by revising *cough* writing fanfiction *cough*. My first mock was Monday morning and my next one is Thursday afternoon so here's hoping I get to start on the next chapter of Begin Again tomorrow!**

**Thank you to all the follows and reviews.**

**Enjoy!**

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Mending Broken Souls: Backwards Baby Steps

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He hated remembering the place he once considered his second home. Once upon a time, it would have been normal and almost nostalgic to think of it. Now, it was a nightmare, even if it was at the time of the calm before the storm.

Mornings in the Great Hall were just as fantastic and magical as the nights, even without the suspended candles scintillating against the backdrop of the starry sky, a perfect replication of the outside. It was his and Fred's extensive playground for pranks and mayhem, and later on, roaming ground for pleasure and flirtation without the accusing glare of his mother watching over their shoulders. But that was later. It was only their third week in their first year and their reputation as mischief makers was solid amongst both professors and students.

They sat with Charlie and some of his friends, covertly granting students from all houses wedgies, their wands hidden under the table. Charlie, who would normally be laughing and encouraging his younger brothers, much to the chagrin of Percy, was busy twirling a girl's hair as she stared wistfully into his eyes. It was a usual occurrence; Charlie and his girls. Girls, plural, for he never could settle with just one.

His at the time girlfriend noticed his distraction from down the table, frowning as she slowly made her way to him. Charlie, always one to be engrossed by breasts, never saw her coming, never noticed his impending doom just seconds away from him.

Fortunately for him then, that his friend opposite him did notice. She coughed over the voices at the table and conspicuously kicked him under the table, successfully sobering him from his daze. Her hair was cropped short, an imitation of the boys around her, messy and dyed disgustingly blonde. She had been introduced to them as soon as they had been sorted, in Percy's year, but got on smashingly well with Charlie – not so well with Percy. But for the life of them they couldn't remember her name. She was nobody; unremarkable in every way.

Charlie, finally removing his eyes from the large breasts before him, saw his girlfriend. Never one to be deterred by raging women – he wouldn't dare include his mother in that statement – winked at his conquest and whispered in her ear. She left then, just like that. And his girlfriend reached him, seething, steaming from the ears. But with Charlie's soft words, she sobered, kissed him and sauntered away, leaving the boys to their breakfast.

"How did you do that?" Fred asked disappointedly; he had been wanting to see some action to start his day.

"What did you say to them?" George asked, equally dissatisfied.

"Told them I had plans for them later, of course," Charlie replied, starting on his sausages.

"What – at the same time?"

"Your girlfriend looked like she wanted to kill Big Boobs!"

Charlie chuckled. "Now there's a thought, both at the same time." His friends guffawed and clapped him on the back. "Naw, Crystal's meeting me at night and Sophie's seeing me just after lunch."

"What are you going to do?" the twins asked.

For a moment, Charlie's face contorted into one of bewilderment, but then answered: "I'll be getting to know them better, what else?"

The twins shared a confused look. "Why would you want to get to know girls?"

"Boys, remember this: girls are a complex species of human," – Percy, sitting across from them, snorted into his tea – "you can't live with 'em, and you can't live without 'em. But they are mighty fine and helpful to be around once you get to know them."

The girl that looked more like a boy who had clued Charlie in on his girlfriend rolled her eyes and winked at the twins.

Later that same day, as the twins made their way back to the common room after unleashing dung bombs near Filch's office, a girl stumbled out of an alcove. It was Big Boobs, flustered and dishevelled and grinning insanely. Behind her, a more composed Charlie appeared. She snogged him then, in the middle of a corridor in front of his younger brothers. The twins shared a look of disgust and gagged loudly. After whispered words from Charlie, she stormed off, yelling out curses and something about wankers.

"Why would you do that? Her tongue was in your mouth!"

"I'm never getting to know girls ever!" Fred exclaimed.

"Better stay away from Angelina then, mate. She'll probably do that to you one day," George said, his eyes wide at the thought of his friend and brother sharing an intimate lip lock similar to the one they had just witnessed.

"Nutters, the lot of them."

The boys swore to never engage with girls. What could they possibly get out of swapping saliva? It was revolting. They would be able to taste that horrid mouth taste everyone has after long hours after cleaning their teeth from bacteria proliferating, not dissimilar to the dreaded morning breath. Or worse, they would be able to savour the aftertaste of whatever it was they had just eaten. That last thought came even more disturbing as cheese quiches had been growing in number for lunch.

Charlie squeezed in between them, slinging an arm around their shoulders.

"Boys, you shouldn't be so quick to disregard them altogether. Something good came out of that."

"What?" they chorused.

"She's done my Potions homework."

With a final clap on the back, Charlie pushed himself in front of them and entered the common room, completely oblivious to the adoring gazes from the younger girls.

Charlie never did desist from his playboy ways, not that his family heard otherwise anyway. His engagement with magical creatures left little room for commitment with women; he was far too focused on his dragons.

The years with the twins before graduating from Hogwarts were spent training them through his knowledge of girls, what they wanted to hear and what pleasured them. The boys grew out of their immature 'girls have troll germs' stance and found that having another hand to help with homework wasn't such a bad idea. After several failed attempts on their part of Weasley wooing, resulting in sickly rumours and poor homework – which the twins laughed off – they amended their older brother's methods. Eventually, they became the perfect gentlemen of Hogwarts (the term gentlemen only stretching so far to the Weasley twins), wanted by all female students. They treated their girls like liquid gold when they needed them, and then surreptitiously distanced themselves until the girls acquiesced to a break up, yet stayed on good terms with most.

But despite all this knowledge of the opposite sex, Charlie never once offered them tips on organising a date.

George could not recall a single date he had planned. Once, in school he had helped Katie with her boy troubles and had gone on a date with her. It was her who had dragged him through and around Hogsmeade, throwing items in his arms only to take them back gently, as if receiving a gift. What those items were, George had no clue; she snatched them so fast he didn't even think she knew.

So it was with no surprise that Ron instantly recognised George's distraction the second he walked into the store. Normally George's distractions worked to his benefit: his work would be his sole focus. This distraction was different, bordering on dangerous. Observing his brother in the early hours, Ron noticed George miscounting change for two young children, sending them off with handfuls of knuts and sickles, possibly even a galleon or two. Not too long after, George rounded off the number of Decoy Detonators to five when there had been far more than that, resulting in a cheeky customer consciously paying less and running out before he noticed.

It was a good thing George had chosen not to spend all morning in the experimentation room, Ron thought.

To say George was anxious for the impending date was an understatement. He knew he was being off despite his attempts of perfecting nonchalance, yet the bemused looks from Ron – Ron! Ron Weasley of all people! – told him he shouldn't have bothered. He was tempted to owl Charlie; find out if the older Weasley finally had some worthy wisdom to bestow.

What does one do for a date to a woman they have already bedded? Fred would know, Fred always knew. The late Weasley twin had been in this exact same situation, however he had had feelings for his girl – George did not.

At lunch Ron forced his brother to go out to eat with him. It was obvious in his every feature that he wanted to know what was bothering George so much.

They strolled leisurely through the large crowds in Diagon Alley to a small restaurant. They didn't make it past the local tramp cuddling with the three legged cat when Ron burst.

"What was that little brother? I couldn't quite hear you; sounds like you've swallowed a Fizzing Firewhiskey Drop."

Ron's ears burned red. "I said what's wrong with you today?"

"Nothing, just thinking about something," George shrugged. Aside from Percy, Ron was the second brother he would not think of confiding in. Sharing a secret with Ron was equivalent to printing it out in all magazines and newspapers. He would let it slip to Ginny who would tell…well, everyone.

"A new product?" Ron asked as they sat inside the mini restaurant. It was quiet compared to the Leaky Cauldron.

"No," George said. He couldn't lie about that, for whenever George had a new product in mind he would spend days working on it, not wasting his time on the shop floor, allowing his ideas to dissipate.

"Then what?"

"It's nothing. Now hurry up and order or I won't pay you for the rest of the week."

Ron scoffed, but obliged. He squirmed in his seat waiting for the food, itching to know George's secret. George, on the other hand, locked his eyes outside the window, staring blankly as his mind worried on his date. He didn't even notice his food on the table.

"Ok, this is not nothing. Come on, you can trust me!" Ron said, halfway through his fish and chips.

He was rewarded with a sardonic eyebrow lift. They stared for moments, George seemingly waiting for Ron to catch on. Ron, forever being labelled slow, did indeed catch on moments later, his face reddening.

"I said I was sorry, mate. It was only once."

George rolled his eyes; he was overly aware of his time in the red zone. It was a mistake, he realised, to trust Ron with information on his holiday in Spain for a night all those years ago. Not that he wanted to divulge it to his little brother, but he needed to explain to his employee his whereabouts for the hours he would miss. The invitation from the customer, an extravagant, voluptuous witch, was sinfully red and sparkly, inviting him to go out to the given address in Spain.

George did not normally go far and out for such things, but he had been desperate, but for what, he did not know. Perhaps, an adventure – that was what he had told himself. He was stuck in a routine and needed something to liven it up. That had seemed the perfect coincidence.

The portkey was successfully arranged within moments for the very next day. In Spain, the deepest blue of the sea effervesced by feathers of golden light at the beaches mesmerised him during the day, warming and colouring his pale skin and evolving his orange hair into a deep copper. He paid his thanks to the nearby wizard for his sun burn prevention cream (100% chance of tan! No redness, no peeling, no sun burn. BARGAIN BUY!). The open hotel just a stone's throw away that he considered moving into wrecked his blissful retreat as the furious face of his sister stood before him. She dragged him by his good ear to the Spanish Ministry where she had organised an emergency portkey – paid through George's pocket, she insisted – and returned to England.

"Doesn't matter now," George said. "Possibly missed out on the best sex of my life, but who cares."

Ron stared, horrified. "You got invited to Spain for _sex?_"

"I dunno, I think so."

"She didn't happen to tell you when she asked you?"

"Must've slipped her mind."

"George!" Ron exclaimed, ready to reprimand his brother. But his mouth simply hung open; he didn't know what to say.

"It doesn't matter now," George repeated.

Ron sighed. But he didn't let it drop for long. Back at the shop he would pester George whenever he thought he had his guard his down, hoping for the instinctive truthful answer. It never came.

"Ron, get the hell out, it's closing time," George yelled from across the store, holding the door open for the last customers.

Ron stepped up from behind the counter and crossed his arms. "No."

"Ron, get out."

"No."

"_Ron._"

"Yes?"

"Out."

"No."

"_Ron._"

"_George._"

The brothers stared from across the room. As soon as the last customer bid George goodbye, he pulled his wand out and aimed it at an unflinching Ron.

"Don't make me jinx you," he warned.

"Do you want to make me make Ginny worried by telling her you've gone to an illegal potion warehouse or will you buck up and tell me what the hell's wrong?"

George cursed his brother and lowered his wand. "Why are you determined to make my life hell?" he groaned. "Alright then, upstairs."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth Ron jumped up the stairs, forgetting to put up the safety wards and charms. After George did the incantations, he followed his brother.

"I have a date."

"A date?" Ron asked sceptically.

"Yes, a date."

"The fruit?"

"No you shit, with a girl."

"You're going on a proper date with a proper girl? Tonight?"

"Yes," George sighed.

Ron grinned. "Well, have fun."

For the first time in a long time, Ron left his brother speechless. George spluttered, and before he could say anything, Ron had apparated away.

"Bloody little cheeky git," he grumbled, walking to the shower.

Throughout the evening George thought up different things to do on their date. Ideas went out as fast as they came in. The Leaky Cauldron was out of the question – that was his place for contemplation (and conveniently his pickup hotspot). Perhaps they could go for drinks there, after though? Just a firewhiskey or two. But after what?

There was a knock at the back door. George, who had been lounging on his sofa nursing a butterbeer, yelled out, "Coming!" as he pulled on his old and rather tattered dragon skin boots.

Another knock.

"I said I'm bloody coming, stop getting your knickers in a bunch, stupid witch," he grumbled. His scowl was replaced by a smile as he opened the door, the swift change aching his face muscles.

"Amy," he greeted.

The brunette stood before him looked exactly as she had the previous day. Her wavy hair in sexy tousles, a form fitting dress, slight makeup emphasising her already striking cheekbones and cat eyes and an indifferent face.

"George," she said, allowing a hint of a smile to show.

"Would you care for a drink before we leave?" George asked, his mind in a flurry of anxiety as he thought up last minute plans.

"Could we just go? I have work in the morning," she said, frowning at her watch.

"Oh, yeah, sure. Let me just grab my jacket."

There was no need for a jacket, for as soon as they stepped outside the breeze blew warm summer air into their faces.

George led Amy down the stairs and stepped out of the back alley onto the main street. Ice cream, fish and chips, chocolates, everything his eyes flew over looked too trivial for a date – a mature date with a woman, not a girl.

"What have you planned?" Amy's voice hinted at her comprehension.

George, never one to be outsmarted, turned to her. "Ever eaten at a muggle place?"

Her fine eyebrow quirked. "No. Have you?"

"Of course, I wouldn't be taking you there otherwise, now, would I?"

She hesitantly took his proffered arm. George concentrated on Hermione's description of a restaurant she had forced Ron to, and with a twist, he apparated them away.

Stepping out the shadows, they saw a building. It was bright and Victorian with high floor to ceiling windows all around, giving a perfect view of people everywhere. Flowers sat in hanging baskets and in pots around the brick building, bringing colour to the otherwise dreary edifice.

"A pub?" Amy's face was screwed in a look of revulsion. "Your idea for a first date is a pub?"

Apparently, George hadn't thought hard enough on Hermione's words; his growling stomach seemed to have a greater influence on his apparition.

"The restaurant's not too far away, fear not. I thought a walk might be nice," George said. He had no idea where this so called restaurant was, and Amy's expression showed her disbelief as well. Nevertheless, she nodded her consent and allowed him to lead the way in silence.

The walk was short along the busy road in Covent Garden. George headed straight toward a wide building with cursive writing spelling out the French or Italian name on a white background with gold trimmings. The interior was just as magnificent as the outside: circular tables with a small vase of flowers and a glitter structure for centrepieces, red and white furniture with gold complements. The customers were dressed in fine garments; dresses and suits.

Stepping up to the counter, the thinly moustached man appraised George and Amy, set down his pen and clasped his hands.

"Good evening, sir. A reservation under the name…?"

Shit. George forgot Hermione mentioning the months wait for a reservation. It was not something that should have easily slipped his mind, the woman had raged on about it at every possible opportunity. He must have gotten so annoyed by hearing it he eventually tuned her out and completely forgot. Shit.

He covertly slipped his wand out of his pocket and up his sleeve.

"Yes, Weasley," George replied, leaning over the smooth polished counter to look into the book. With a flick of his wrist and a murmured incantation, his name emerged, replacing 'Whinstone'.

The man peered up at George, once again raking his eyes over George's attire.

"Of course, sir, right this way," he smiled, his overly white teeth momentarily blinding George as it reflected the lights bouncing off the marbled floor and tiled walls.

Their table was, fortunately, situated in a back corner. George thanked him and sat himself down. Amy smiled at him, expressing her thanks in foreign tongue and sat opposite George.

"The waiter should be here with the menus soon," she said, once again frowning at George. "You didn't make a reservation."

"Forgot," he replied, pocketing his wand again.

"You used magic in a room full of muggles," she said, her voice in a matter of fact tone instead of reprimanding.

George winked. "What they don't know won't hurt us."

Amy pressed her lips together – whether it was to muffle laughter or as a show of frustration was unknown – but said nothing.

A waiter came and handed them two leather bound menus. Eyes flying over the words made up of jumbled letters and signs that made no sense aroused a premature headache. They inspected their menus in silence, George attempting to decipher the code of whatever language it was written in. Amy read with no difficulty. He was tempted to ask her what she was ordering, the silence heavy with a tension unaccustomed to George, but he was sure she would sneer at him for his idiocy.

Once their orders had been taken (George pointing at the most expensive) the verbal silence overcame them once again until George grew restless.

"So where do you work?" he asked.

"Ministry," she replied.

"Oh. What department?" He could hazard a guess that she was one of _those _who followed protocol to the immediate dot.

"I started work in the Department of International Magical Cooperation but now I work in the Auror Office," she said, sipping on her wine.

Percy had started work in the Ministry in the Department of International Magical Cooperation. George's eyebrows lifted of their own accord. The woman before him, gorgeous, beautiful, easily mistaken for a model, an Auror? He couldn't fathom it.

"Wow, that's impressive. Why'd you change departments?" he asked, genuinely interested.

"Got bored."

George laughed, almost choking on his wine.

"The little lady _can j_oke after all," he said, leaning back in his chair.

Amy smirked. "I don't recall being treated like a little lady the other night."

George grinned. "I must admit this new side of you is remarkable."

"What if I told you this isn't a new side?" she asked coyly, leaning forward on her elbows, allowing him a generous view of her assets, to which he took full advantage.

In just a few words, his night swiveled in a direction he had long forgotten, and he found himself looking forward to reacquainting himself with the next steps.

The waiter arrived, setting their plates before them. Steaming dishes of pasta and some sort of fish greeted them. Despite George not knowing what was in front of him, it looked appetising and far more appealing than his home cooked meals of toast and beans and chicken.

They dug into their meals in silence, quietly surveying one another. It was far too good for the start of a first date, George thought, slurping a strand of noodle from his fork, attracting scowls from their neighbouring patrons and Amy. He shrugged goofily. Slow music, like the waves of an ocean accompanied with a siren's song hung in the air, setting the mood along with the yellow lights and candles. It was all too fancily romantic. George didn't know how he felt about it.

"So, your old job, is that where you learned to speak…whatever it was you spoke?"

"Italian. Yes, I learned some in Italy," she replied. "I was only there for three weeks but because I had to negotiate some things with the Italian Ministry it was mandatory I knew the language."

"What other languages do you know?"

"Some French, German, Arabic, Japanese, Swiss, Creole and Hindi."

His eyebrows shot up. "Impressive. But not once did you mention dear old English."

"I'm obviously speaking English. Are you too thick to want that in the list as well for future reference?" she asked, cocking her head to the side cutely.

"Of course," he grinned.

"Then add on English."

"What kind?"

"Excuse me?"

"What kind of English? American English, Australian English, English English…?"

Amy giggled into her almost empty flute. "English English."

"That's the best kind."

She shook her head, still smiling, and returned to her meal. George, however, was not finished with his questions.

"What house were you in back in Hogwarts?" He was about to include 'I don't recall ever having seen you' but thought it would be in his best interest if it were left out.

"Ravenclaw. And you were in mighty Gryffindor."

"So you knew me?"

Amy scoffed. "Everyone knew the Weasleys. But you would not have known me."

"And why is that?"

"I was always in the library, and if I am correct in my assumption, you hardly ever stepped foot in there."

"Such a Ravenclaw," he rolled his eyes.

"What a Gryffindor. Only you lot would dare wear something like that in a place like this."

George's eyes automatically dropped to his clothes: a simple shirt, his trousers with more stains on it than he would have liked and his dragon hide jacket. Observing the appearance of those around him, he noticed how considerably under dressed he was. "Apologies for not dressing like a stuffy snob."

The couple at the table adjacent to theirs turned to face them, the balding man with jewels of sweat dotting his forehead scowling, his much younger partner sucking in her lips in obvious amusement.

"Like that guy!" George said, pointing to the man who was almost as red as the Hogwarts Express. His partner squeaked and gulped down her drink. Amy's eyes widened, her mouth open, ready to remedy the situation but gaped horrified.

George stared until the man cleared his throat and turned back around, breaking their eye contact. He sent a wink to the younger woman, eliciting a blush. Amy none too gently kicked his shin, catching his attention.

"What was that?" she hissed.

"A joke."

"Was that really appropriate?"

"Always is," he replied, downing the last of his wine and then clapped his hands. "Dessert?"

"You are unbelievable," Amy shook her head.

"That a yes?"

"I cannot believe I'm doing this."

"That's definitely a yes."

"What are you in the mood for?" she asked, giving in to the smile.

If it had happened any faster George was sure he experienced time travel into the future. He had paid for the meal and dragged Amy out of the restaurant before she could voice her complaints on him paying. He knew she would complain; she had that face on (eyes squinted and face screwed) that meant his ears would pay dearly if he did not get her mind off it quickly.

They walked briskly down streets. George's Weasley twin senses were on overdrive, detecting something garish and fun nearby, and, looking across the road, he gravitated towards the shop with a bright sign, leaving Amy to follow at her own leisure.

The window displayed cakes and cookies of every variety possibly known. Pastries, and pies, and doughnuts. She followed George inside and stood beside him, reading the overhead list of ice creams.

"Hello," a man behind the counter greeted. "Eat in or take out?"

"Eat in," George answered.

"Take a seat, I'll bring you over a menu."

They sat at a table beside the window, watching the busy cars, the late night strollers and the colourful lights of London.

"This all looks amazing," Amy gasped, reading the menu.

"What you thinking of ordering?" George asked, his gaze fixed on the pictures in the book.

"I'm not much of a sweet tooth in all honesty," she offered a small smile, "But the red velvet cake looks good. You?"

Turning over the menu, he pointed to his choice and grinned. It was not long until their orders arrived, Amy's small plate holding a luscious slice of cake, and George's tall glass filled with multiple flavoured ice creams, sweets and topped with a wafer.

Dessert was eaten mostly in silence, noises of contentment and George gushing about his ice cream breaking it momentarily.

All too soon the night was over and the duo found themselves strolling down Diagon Alley, the music pounding in the distance filling in the silence.

An airy feeling was present in George, almost bubbly. He wanted to skip and jump and yell and sing in the most boisterous way possible, the only thing stopping him was Amy's deathly glare he was sure to meet if he did so. He felt high on life for the first time in a long time, this state as euphoric as time spent with a Patented Day Dream Charm. It was a feeling he had once been accustomed to feeling daily years in the past, but had long since forgotten in the realities of evil in the world.

He felt alive.

With the courage of Gryffindor, his hand clasped Amy's and his fingers locked between hers. It was a casual thing, he had to remind himself; just hand holding. He had done far more touching with others before. But it was an intimate moment for him. George never had been one to settle down with a girl for longer than a few weeks, and in that short time he would be half-hearted in the mundane actions of the relationship. He never understood the hysteria over holding hands amongst girls. But with his hand firmly held with hers, he saw a world exposed before him. A sensual world, with smells and sounds and touch overwhelming him in ways he never knew possible.

And it was over as fast as it had begun, seeing WWW just ahead of them.

"As much as I would love to accompany you back into your flat, I have work in the morning," Amy said before George could even think of an appropriate goodbye. She tilted her head up and kissed his slightly stubbly cheek, wincing at the feel of his prickly hairs on her soft lips.

It was bad of him to think, terrible, atrocious, but for a split second before her words promptly ended their night he pictured her under him, singing praises to Merlin above for blessing her with such inconceivable pleasure. It was an unwritten rule: no sex on the first date. But was that applicable in his situation? They had already engaged in fierce intercourse - several times, in fact. Her eyes were bright, softly shadowed by a hint of fatigue. George chanted: Baby steps. Backward baby steps.

"Would you like lunch tomorrow?"

"Sure. Leaky Cauldron?"

George nodded, and with a final wave, Amy apparated away, the aroma of her spicy perfume the only element of her presence lingering.

Twirling his wand in his hand, he whistled a tune and strolled down the Alley, arriving at the pub. He did not stay long, only consuming one butterbeer, and ignored all the stares, retreating back into the Alley where few others were taking a stroll home.

The tramp was sitting on the ground against a building on his way home. From between the scraggly strands of her dark hair curtaining her face her could see her eyes closed and her mouth slightly ajar, notifying him to her slumber. A soft squeak forced his gaze down, and he saw dull green eyes peeking out of her dirty jacket. The cat was slowly escaping from its enclosure, a feat made difficult and clumsy due to the lack of typical legs, and sat on her lap, staring up at George.

It was an odd thing, for George to pause in front of a homeless person. His charity work was limited to only involving large known charities. He had never stopped to think about the poor right in front of him. Laughter echoed around him from a group of drunk men just down the Alley.

He frowned at the scene before him and shuffled through his pockets. All he could find were some knuts and fewer sickles. Deeming them acceptable, he slowly bent over as to avoid scaring the cat, opened the bony hand of the girl and gently placed the coins in it.

"Oi! That yer girlfrien' mate?" one of the intoxicated men called, much closer to the pair. They stumbled and swayed on their feet, their eyes misted over in a layer of drunken fog.

"She's an ugly bird, tha' one. A trrroll," another slurred.

The men laughed.

"Stupid whore," another man spat, his saliva dripping on the front of his robes.

George gritted his teeth; his hand was being squeezed tightly, frail fingers digging into his skin. The tramp's eyes were wide and alert, awoken from the commotion, flickering between George and the men. Her hold only tightened.

"How cute!" they chorused, and stumbled away making inappropriate grunts and sighs.

He was unable to move; her hand squeezed and tensed every time George squirmed.

"Let go!" he said, using his left hand to pull away at her marble fingers.

She mumbled inarticulately, her voice too fast and garbled to be distinguished.

"I said let go!"

His yell shocked her and her hand fell away. George stumbled back and almost tripped over the cat rubbing itself around his legs. Without thinking, he ran to Weasley Wizards Wheezes, the raucous laughter dying with every step.

He sighed loudly upon entering his flat and rubbed his face as if it would calm his drumming heart.

He did not even realise he had agreed to go to the Leaky Cauldron for his lunch date.


	4. Missing What is Right There

**Thank you for reviews/follows/favourites! The story will start picking up after here. **

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Mending Broken Souls: Missing What is Right There

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The next day the shop was just as lively and colourful as usual, awash with golden streams of light seeming to emanate from George, repelling the grey warmth of the London summer. He grinned to a group of giggling young girls, whispering satisfyingly over their purchases. He skipped over to an elderly man struggling to escape from surrounding clusters of children, his walking stick waving threateningly. On any other day George would have formally scolded the man and the children, but he was humming a joyful tune and whirled the man away to a clear area, ignoring his protests, and returned to the counter.

His delightful mood was contagious to everyone around Weasley Wizard Wheezes. Surrounding shoppers in Diagon Alley felt compelled to browse the store, the aura attracting and spreading a warmth through them, filling them with an excited buzz.

It was a strange thought, having such happiness aroused by one woman, one who he had not even been enthusiastic about spending time with sober at that exact same time the previous time. There was something odd about her - no, not odd, _different, _but he couldn't pinpoint exactly _what._ Yes, she was gorgeous, utterly angelic and perfect; she was smart and strong, one would have to be to be accepted as an Auror; sophisticated, witty, talented, athletic -

The list was endless, all gathered through two meetings with her. George was gobsmacked for the very first time without the aid of Gobby's Godly Gobstoppers.

"You're worrying me," Bill, the sibling visiting him, said, eyeing his younger brother suspiciously. He peered under the counter and stretched his arm behind his back. "What have you done?"

"William!" George cried. "I have done nothing. It is simply a wonderful morning leading to an equally, possibly even more, wonderful afternoon."

"What's happening this afternoon?"

George winked and tapped his nose in response. From the moment he woke his lunch date with Amy played in his mind, spreading a tingle through him that had nothing to do with the naked blonde dressing on her way out of his flat, he kept telling himself.

"Bloody sod," Bill muttered.

"How's Vicky?" George asked.

"Great," Bill chuckled, serving a boy no older than his daughter supervised by an elderly lady behind him. "She's really excited for Sunday lunch at mums, especially after Ron let loose that you're coming."

"I'm excited to see her too," George smiled, ignoring the building discomfort at the mention of lunch at the Burrow. "Hey, d'you think Fleur would mind if –"

"Yes, she would," Bill said forcefully. "The last time you gave Victoire a gift the house was swamped in glitter for days. And let's not forget the smell." His scarred face scrunched up horrifically.

A laugh broke out of George's lips. "She was the inspiration behind Glitter Gas, how could I not give her some?"

"But an entire crate mate? Do you know how long Fleur chewed me out for her little princess not being ladylike?"

"Fleur should be proud to have a daughter who can rival Hagrid."

"More like rival Fang," Bill muttered.

They watched the customers milling around the products for a while until Bill pulled out the Daily Prophet and perused the front page, waiting for someone to serve. His long hair was tied back in its usual style, longer than how it was in his younger years, now reaching past his shoulders. His multitude of earrings were visible on one ear and, despite the scars marring his face, he looked a handsome man.

"Oi, you been reading about this?" Bill asked, his eyes, the brown inherited from his mother, never leaving the article.

"I don't read the Prophet," George said. The Daily Prophet that arrived at his flat in the morning had the same fate as all those prior: pygmy puff litter. He had no issue mentioning this his brother.

"I thought you would have known all about it, what with your target customers being children."

"If it was anything remotely important to me or the business someone would have mentioned it to me by now," George shrugged as a teenage boy approached the counter.

"I'm surprised Ron hasn't said anything."

As if alerted to his name being mentioned, the youngest Weasley son appeared from the back room.

"Done, sorted through the new boxes," Ron exhaled.

"Alphabetical order?" George asked.

"Yes," Ron sent a tired glare to George. "I don't see how you can fit all your potions in that cupboard."

"Ron, there are two other cupboards against the other wall."

"When did you get them?" Ron asked, furrowing his brows. "I didn't see them. I've been using the same cupboard for months."

"I got them the last time you complained, about eight months ago," George answered.

He flushed pink and shrugged, plopping himself down on a stool between his brothers.

"You heard about this?" Bill asked, holding the newspaper up for Ron to see.

He frowned, eyes flying over the article and nodded. "Harry mentioned something about it the other day."

George focused on the growing line of customers and gestured for Bill to start serving as Ron continued on about Harry's Auror work, most of which fell on deaf ears. Ron always spoke of Harry's job fondly, but never resentfully as was expected once he completed training and rejected the role, opting to help George in the shop instead; everyone thought he would have grown to begrudge his decision. It was one of those earth shattering moments, the clouds opening up to reveal the blue sky after a torrent of rainfall, an epiphany almost, where it was clear to all how thoughtful Ron could be when his temper took a back seat, leaving the Weasleys and Potters in awe of his generosity; it was no secret how desperate Ron was to be an Auror.

Once the line petered out somewhat the conversation turned to Quidditch as it normally did. Bill teased Ron about his still ongoing obsession with the Chudley Canons, recalling the numerous amount of underwear and paraphernalia he attempted to collect as a child. It was the type of sibling banter George remembered all too clearly from before the war, when it was he and Fred who teased and harassed and joked, the centres of attention and the objects of amusement. It was rare for him to act as he once used to daily now without an accomplice. Teddy and Vicky were wonderful to teach but they did not maintain the particular prowess or wit of that of his twin. They were too noisy, too clumsy and too slow. But he admired their own independent ways that differed so greatly to him. It was what made his pranking exploits unpredictable and exciting, the impulsiveness of their actions and outcomes. With Fred, he would always know what was to come; they were parallel and their thoughts ran together in an intertwined vine. They did not have to actually ponder what the other was doing, it was in their blood to simply know.

Bill lifted the sleeve of his WWW lime green robes and checked his watch. "Almost lunch."

When he looked back up George was halfway out the door already.

"Oi!"

"You can lock up for lunch!" he yelled over his cursing older brother and began his journey to the Leaky Cauldron, eager to run away from the direction his thoughts were headed.

The pub was slowly filling up with customers for the lunch rush hour, but George managed to snag a relatively clean table. He played with a stray toothpick as the noise in the pub grew, bending it this way and that until it snapped. He then loosened his robes, the humid heat from the summer and the warm bodies uncomfortable in the dark and enclosed space. There was no one he recognised in the pub.

Looking up after a while, he saw Ron and Bill pass the window and checked the time on his watch, noting it was eleven minutes after noon.

Amy arrived minutes later, squeezing through the large crowd until she reached his table. Despite her heavy breathing, her hair was immaculate in its bun and she looked the epitome of angelic in the desolate tavern, a princess in the dungeon.

"Hello, George," she greeted, her voice velvety as she set her bag down and seated herself with a light huff. She pecked him softly on the cheek and marvelled in the smooth shaven skin.

"Hello."

"Sorry I'm late." Her smiled dropped and she looked beautifully frazzled for a moment. "I had a mountain of work to get through. I'm afraid I had to bring some here as well," she indicated to her bag, rolls of parchment peeking out over the top.

"Perks of having my own business – I can shove my work onto someone else."

She smiled tightly, her inner Ravenclaw obviously irked by his lack of responsibility, although she didn't say anything on the matter. "Have you ordered?"

"Not yet. What are you feeling?"

"Probably just some fish and chips."

George grinned and called over the barman, a boy graduated from Hogwarts a few years George's prior. As soon as he left after taking their orders they resumed conversation.

"So…Ravenclaw."

"Gryffindor," Amy quirked a flawless eyebrow.

"I can't believe for a second I don't remember seeing you." She did not seem to mind his admission.

"Maybe that was because I was not in your year." Seeing George's confused gaze she rolled her eyes and said: "I'll give you a clue, I was in the same year as another Weasley."

"Charlie," came George's immediate response.

Amy laughed. "No! He's years older."

"You're younger?" George asked, astounded; she looked too perfect.

"Should be an easy guess now, you only have two options."

"Ron?"

"Spot on."

"And I didn't see you at the Yule Ball? Rubbish!" George said.

"I definitely saw you," she said just as their food arrived. "I don't think anyone could have missed your dancing."

A grin danced on his lips as he remembered that night. He had taken his friend Alicia; they were the only two in their peer group to not have a date or anyone in mind to go with. She had looked wonderful in her red dress that accentuated her slim figure. The night was fun as the majority of students drank spiked drinks – courtesy of the twins, of course – allowing their inhibitions to drown in liquid courage and unleash the devils within. Alicia had engaged in his manic dancing for only a few songs before retreating elsewhere, leaving him to swap and change partners. He had danced for hours, jumping and twirling and flying across the Great Hall like a wild Hippogriff.

The details jumped out at him, the formation of the candles in a panoramic view of art, the ice sculptures, and the glimmering decorations on the trees, the food and the outfits. And amongst it all he could imagine Amy, graceful as a Queen in the blurred image his mind constructed; he could not even begin to picture the real beauty of her being that night.

"Who did you go with?" George asked, taking a large bite of his pie and mash.

"Connor Farrell."

"Foul Farrell?" George could not help but laugh, almost choking on the food in his mouth. "You went with him to the ball!"

"Yes, and I had a lovely time," she held her head high as if she did not attend the momentous ball with the smelly geeky Ravenclaw. "He was the perfect gentleman."

"Were you his first kiss?" George teased.

"Yes, in fact, I was. I hardly need to ask what you got up to."

"What's that mean?"

"It went around the entire school." George looked confused. "You really don't know?"

"Don't know what?"

"You lost your virginity that night," Amy whispered, almost shocked.

George laughed. "Oh, that. Yeah, 'course I did."

Her face was fabulously bemused at his shamelessness and George had to wonder again whether she was carved out of gold by angels. That first night printed itself on the back of his eyelids and he smirked recalling the wicked things she did – moulded by angels, trained by the devil.

"So how was it, being in the same class as the Golden trio?" he asked, wiggling his eyebrows dramatically.

"Terrible. They were always disturbing one thing or another," Amy said.

"Ouch," George's hand flew to his chest. "Not even having Hermione made it better?"

The fish, George guessed, was too hot when it hit her tongue from the mention of the famous trio, evoking the curling of her lip and a low hiss. "She was just as bad as the other two. No offence."

"Take offence for them? Pfft, you're a laugh."

"Sorry."

"Typical Ravenclaw," George winked.

They conversed comfortably for a short while longer until it dissolved and they immersed themselves into their food, the gossips in the pub playing a gentle background tune. Amy took out a roll of parchment and scribbled over it, managing to write and eat simultaneously without dirtying her work. George ogled her for a moment, mesmerised by her perfection yet doubting her existence. Surely she could not be real.

"How was work?" Amy eventually asked, dropping her quill.

"Good," George drank from his tumbler. "My brother had the day off work today so he's helping out some. It helps loads when there's more people, especially during the rush hours."

"That's nice of him," she commented. "Where does he usually work?"

"Gringotts. He's a curse breaker."

Her eyebrows lifted. "Impressive."

"Not as impressive as owning your own business," George winked, although Amy said nothing. "How was Auror work?"

"Busy. Mainly paperwork today, the others are out patrolling and planning on ways to find those missing kids," she said, finishing off her fish and focusing on the remaining chips on her plate, most of which she simply played with.

"What missing kids?"

"You don't know?" her eyes widened. "It's been in the news for a long time now. There have been several cases of children just disappearing."

George frowned. "When did this start?"

"Shortly after the war."

Almost five years of disappearing, most likely kidnapped children and George was only hearing about it now? He could not comprehend it. He was acquainted to many of the children that entered WWW, how could he just overlook not seeing them again?

"Bloody hell," he murmured.

"It didn't start off as such a big case," Amy continued. "It was only one family at first, reported their son missing when they were out at a funfair so we just assumed he got lost. And he was. Then ever so slowly more reports started flying in; they had a gap of approximately two and four months between for a while, so there was never any real connection. Sometimes the kids were found, sometimes they were not. That's always how it has been with these kinds of incidents. The children's ages varied as well.

"Only recently was it discovered that there are certain hotspots where the children disappear. That, and the gap has been decreasing. Before it was months, maybe even one child every year, half a year. Now it is only weeks."

George took in this information with a hardened stomach, no longer empty and hungry for food. He wanted to hit himself over the head for being so ignorant. How had no one come to question him yet? He owned the most prestigious children's store in London, surely someone would have asked him whether he noticed anything. His earlier conversation with Bill entered his mind and he was consumed with momentary anger. His own brothers had not bothered to tell him.

Growing up in a family of nine where the majority were children George could not even begin to understand the pain and grief those families were going through. If any of his brothers or sister had suddenly gone missing he would be a mad mess. He would not leave it alone until they were found. He would do anything in his power to get them back. And yet some of these parents had waited years and still no news. Victoire's grin and Teddy's ever changing bright head of hair, what would he do without them? Or little Molly's slobbery kisses and gurgles? And they were not even his children.

It was painful to think, a dull knife stabbing over and over and twisting, what may have become of those young innocents. No one wanted to believe the probable reality, large lifeless eyes that had not seen enough wonders of the world. No, he would not dare think that.

"Well, that was as lovely a lunch as the Leaky could ever serve!" Amy said, unaware to George's mental suffering. She wiped her clean lips with a paper napkin, rolled it into a ball and dropped it in her plate.

"When was the last missing child report?" George asked.

"Oh, about three days ago," Amy replied, rolling up her parchments again and organising them neatly in her bag.

He pondered over this and promised himself to keep a close eye on all his customers.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

George grinned at her worried gaze. "Absolutely spiffing. Although," he made a show of checking the time and smirked at Amy, leaning in over the small table until they were almost nose to nose. "I'm still rather a bit hungry."

The head tilt made it clear to George that she was sharing his thoughts. It was followed by a light brush of her calf against his leg. In no time they rushed out of the dingy pub and fled to the flat above WWW.

* * *

When Bill and Ron returned from their lunch break they shared a worried look and ran up to the flat where a commotion of noise was breaking through the charms of the back room. They never made it, however, as when they reached the bottom of the stairs they could hear perfectly clearly the source of the noise.

"I uh, think we should put up another charm and open up shop," Bill said, tugging lightly on his fang earring and gesturing for Ron to move.

They silently put up more charms and once they were certain no noise would enter the shop floor, switched the sign and took their spots behind the counter.

Ron, still bright red, cleared his throat, opened his mouth hesitantly, and then closed it again, repeating himself some more until murmuring, "Bloody hell."

Bill let out an embarrassed chuckle. "Sure are loud, aren't they?"

It was a rhetorical question, one Ron answered nonetheless. "Loud? You call that loud? It sounds like a Quidditch match up there between two beaters! I've never heard so much bloody grunting and moaning before. It's George! That was - That's George up there!"

His voice rose through his exclamation and Bill had to clamp his hand over his brother's mouth upon noticing two teenage girls watching them curiously.

Ron's eyes widened. "You don't think he's started again, do you?"

"Of course not, stop being a twat."

"Yeah, probably."

They served customers in silence until Bill stopped.

"Excuse me, sir?" a moody boy said. "My change?"

"Oh, sorry mate," Bill apologised, handing over a handful of sickles and then turned to Ron. "He said he was going to have a good afternoon earlier, it's not a random wench."

"Shh!" Ron said, shooing away a kid. "What else did he say?"

"Nothing. Y'know what he's like when we start to question him."

"Wait! He told me he had a date last night."

"What, with a girl?"

"Yes! A proper girl on a proper date."

Just then the back door slammed open, revealing a ruffled George. They watched him glide around the shop, peering over customers' shoulders and informing them of what a wonderful choice they made with their products. He fiddled with neatly arranged products and picked out a few pygmy puffs, placing them on a woman's head as he leaned his chin on his hands upon reaching the counter.

Bill and Ron arched their eyebrows at George, waiting for his next move. When all he did was let out a dreamy sigh, Bill said: "Must've been some shag."

"Oh, you have no bloody idea," George sang.

"'S it serious?"

"Probably. No more shags with Luna now. We've decided we're official, completely exclusive."

"You've been shagging Luna Lovegood?" Ron asked, looking half disgusted and curious.

George hopped on the counter. "Sometimes. She comes around when she wants to and we just…do stuff." He noticed the looks his brothers were giving him. "We don't always have sex!"

"Wow, Lovegood," Bill said before Ron opened his mouth. "That must be interesting."

"Oh, you have no bloody idea," George repeated, a goofy grin on his face as he recalled the early morning's events with the aforementioned Ravenclaw loon. Her random knocks had woken him up and she began her sensuous dance as soon as he allowed her entrance, instantly enticed.

"So, this new girl…"

"Amy."

"Right, Amy. She pretty?"

"Fucking gorgeous."

"Of course she would be, you're vain," Ron injected.

"Oi!" George yelled. "I am not."

Ron, with his infamous big mouth that was in desperate need of flood gates and a padlock, then ticked off all the previous encounters he had had with George's girls, describing their appearance as vividly as possible from the length of their hair to the colour of their nails.

"Wow," George said once Ron had finished. "Hermione must be chuffed you look at them all so thoroughly."

Ron huffed and flipped off his brother when no one was looking.

"Where did she go by the way?" Bill asked.

"Flooed to work."

"Where does she work?"

His mouth was ready to answer, eager, almost, to show off, but his mind quickly caught up. "I won't tell you that. You'll go and ask people and they'll tell you all about her."

"So she knows someone we know?" Ron asked, straightening up.

"Perhaps," George said.

"Just tell us."

"No. Sod off."

They bothered him for much of the afternoon and teased him as only brothers could, congratulating him lackadaisically and then boasting about their own partners (Ron not as animatedly – his life would be in terrible danger if Hermione were to find out). By the time all the customers had left George was dying to get to bed, his mind a mosaic of imprints for all his latest ideas draining his energy.

Bill lingered and waited for Ron to take his leave.

"You were serious about being exclusive, weren't you?" he asked.

"Yes Bill, I was," George sighed; he did not want to have this talk with his eldest brother. He would need a firewhiskey once they were done.

"Maybe you should bring her for Sunday lunch?"

"No."

"Perhaps another night then?" Bill suggested. "Slowly ease her into the family –"

"_No_, because we've only started going out and I'm not introducing her to the mad house any time soon," George snapped, locking the door with a flourish of his wand. "You can Floo home."

Bill followed his brother up to the flat.

"George." George ignored him. "George," he tried again.

"What?"

Despite being stocky and fuller than his eldest brother George could not compare his physical strength to the tall boy, grudgingly turning around to face his brother when he gripped his shoulder.

"You need to start talking to us," Bill said with a wisdom alien to George. He had seen this look once before. "I know I'm not Fred, none of us are. But we are still your family and that means something. We'll always be here for you, regardless. I can't say I understand what you're feeling or what you need to help but I can try, that's what I'm here for. I won't go away if you stamp your feet and yell like a kid. I've seen you at your worst and from what it looks like this Amy is sorting you out. You're dancing in your shop again!" Bill laughed. "Whatever she's doing for you I appreciate it. I won't interfere if it'll damage you. But if it gets any more serious than what you're saying we have a right to meet her. Properly."

George shrugged his brother's hand off his shoulder and smiled. "Cheers, bro. I know you mean well. It's just…not everyone would be pleased."

Bill winced. That, he could understand. It was the one instant he knew exactly how his brother felt and what he expected, recalling introducing Fleur. But this time no wise words came, nothing he had not already told George before. He was not going to repeat himself with advice of patience and all the others that would be pleased, it was not what George wanted to hear.

And George was glad for his brother not saying all that was on his mind. This was his situation to deal with, no his family's.

With a final clap on the shoulder, Bill departed through the Floo, yelling out to his brother what was deemed an acceptable gift for his daughter. George could not help but chortle at the mention of either a silver dress or a fake wand fit for a princess. He loved Victoire and it broke his heart to think of her growing up, distancing herself from her extended family as was typical when children grew into their adolescent stages, and then into their own marriages and families. She was forever his innocent little prankster princess, and he would help to keep her safe from whatever was taking those children.


	5. The Weasley Fire

**I'm so happy with this chapter! I'm so glad I was able to update this story even at the expense of ignoring my coursework (regretting it already).**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Mending Broken Souls: The Weasley Fire

* * *

Saturday could not have come faster for George. The arrival of Amy into his life had turned his week somersaulting before his very eyes, and he was grateful for the drastic change to his mindless activities under the cover of darkness. It was the first weekend he could remember waking up on at a decent hour, later than the birds and earlier than noon. He was unburdened by the pain of a hangover, and treated himself to a breakfast of pancakes. Thoughts swam around his head, toying with the idea of surprising the early shoppers by opening the shop before usual.

The Floo sounded from his position by the stove.

"Ginny, go home," he called, flipping his third pancake. The sweet, buttery smell was teasing his senses, like velvet through his blood, and he struggled to keep his patience and not eat the golden cake straight out of the pan without the additional pleasure of syrup. It wasn't often he made himself pancakes. "I'm awake so put your wand away. 'Fraid you won't be able to use that new crab charm Luna taught you."

"Crab charm? Sounds painful," his new favourite voice said as arms encircled around his waist.

"I wouldn't know, she threatened me with it the last time she woke me up on a Saturday," he smiled, peering over his shoulder to see Amy's brown hair, straight and glossy. "Good morning. I wasn't expecting you."

"Morning," she kissed his shoulder through his t-shirt and stood beside him, leaning her back against the counter. "I didn't know you were domestic."

"There's a lot you don't know about me. Now, give me a proper morning," he said, and leant down, catching her lips with his. Minty breath blew in his hot mouth causing a shiver to run through him, his insides burning from its chill. Her hands stroked up his chest to tug on his apron, their kiss growing in force. The rush of emotions evoked through her touch astounded George.

"What's that smell?" she asked, her voice mumbled against George; he felt more than heard her words. His hands tugged her hips to his, pressing her between himself and the counter. In that position he could feel all of her, and it was the most sensual feeling one could hope to receive in the morning.

Well, not the _most._

He inhaled sharply through his nose, his lips ravishing hers wildly, too consumed to even comprehend separating. The smouldering scent coalesced with sugar hit the back of his throat.

Gold turned to black covered by a grey fog.

"Shit!" he exclaimed, grabbing the pan and throwing it into the sink. The hiss of water on the burning metal filled the kitchen alongside heavy coughs and he waved his wand, the smoke clearing away.

"Is this common practice in your kitchen?"

"Hardly," he answered.

"Hmm." She wasn't looking at him, but at the large black stain that partially covered his ceiling.

"Would you believe me if I said that wasn't me?" he asked, offering his most innocent smile. Her arched eyebrow and crossed arms told him his lie was futile.

There was enough batter for two more pancakes, giving George four rolls of perfection for breakfast, although the last was somewhat disfigured due to a failed attempt at flipping the pancake. Amy had not looked impressed.

"D'you have the day off?" he asked, two forkfuls stuffed in his mouth with his third halfway there.

"I don't work weekends, just catch up on paperwork."

"You plan on working up here?"

"Sorry?" She looked almost scandalised at the suggestion, and George eyed what he could see of his flat; it wasn't at all messy.

He chewed and swallowed, then wiped the sticky substance from his lips. The taste of lemon lingered. "It's Saturday, shopping day."

"Oh. So you'll be working?" she sounded disappointed.

"I thought you'd know." She should have known, wasn't it typical of girls to catch up with their girlfriends over a spot of shopping on the weekend? "Did you have something in mind?"

"No, no, I just thought we could spend the day together. What about tomorrow?"

The anticipation of a wince was forced back. "Sunday lunch at my mum's. Sorry."

"Right, of course. My mistake."

"How 'bout tonight?" he asked quickly, hating the frown gracing her features. "We'll go out for dinner."

There was an instantaneous result. "That sounds great. How does the Silver Sphere sound?"

Anyone not impressed with the high end restaurant aimed towards the equivalent of wizard royalty would have to be crazy. It was located in a restricted area in Diagon Alley, charmed to only allow entrance to those who had reserved and paid beforehand. It kept the lowlifes out, the underprivileged and the delinquents. George had never been, what with being born under the category of the underprivileged. It was the type of place the Malfoys often dined.

"Sounds…" the word 'expensive' popped into his head but he didn't dare say it out loud. Growing up he had been ridiculed enough for his family's poverty, but they had overcome everything, earned their own and made the Weasley name iconic. All of his siblings made an impact in the wizarding world, both in the war and at work. The Burrow was still their home, Molly and Arthur refusing to move out despite their new wealth, but allowed renovations and fixtures to the crumbling building that had been in danger of tilting to its doom. And yet, the past still burdened him. "Classy."

"It's perfect, they have the best food. You'll love it."

It didn't sound at all appealing to George, listening carefully as she described all the details from the elegance of the decor to the meal courses. The attire was, of course, formal, more formal than George owned. The Malfoys resurfaced to his mind again, the snobbish, mightier than thou Malfoys he had grown up knowing, and he could not see himself seated with such patrons.

When he brought up the topic of reservations Amy's face fell again, dejected at having her night ruined, and George mentally sighed in relief. Their date to the Silver Sphere was left for a later day.

Suggestions on dinner from George varied from grimy pubs to family friendly restaurants he had visited over the years with friends and family. They were all shot down on the excuse of being unsuitable for a date. He was growing frustrated at the lack of direction and was ready to escape to the shop when Amy finally clapped her hands.

"I'll cook us some dinner," she said. "I'll go out and buy some things later on and we can eat here."

"Here? Why not at yours?"

"There's no reason for us to eat at mine if I'll be cooking dinner here," she stood up. "Shouldn't you be opening shop now?"

By the time George showered, dressed, kissed Amy goodbye (she Flooed home to do her paperwork) and hopped downstairs, Verity was stocking the shelves. The time read 9.07am.

"Alright, Ver," George called, buttoning up his robe.

"Morning, Mr Weasley," she greeted. "I wasn't expecting you up so early. It's not even noon."

Verity was the perfect employee for Wheezes. She had a marvellous sense of humour, friendly and considerate to all the customers, quick thinking in almost any predicament, devious enough to get revenge on George and, the most noticeable quality of all, a charming smile that could ward off a dementor if given the chance. Her admirable affection to all who entered the store made for great relations, and numerous times George had received praise about her.

"Ha ha, you're hilarious."

"That was number one on the list of attributes necessary on the job description."

It was indeed the first the on the list, the list that was printed on its first draft and remained untouched after Fred's death. He had been the one to design it, after all.

"And when are you going to stop calling me Mr Weasley, you know it makes my heart weep not to hear my friend address me as one." He went to help her shelving the products.

"I'm a professional and will address my boss rightly," she quoted, George mimicking the words he heard so often. It was like a ritual for them. "And besides, the last employee to call you by your first name left something of a reputation which I would very much like to pass."

"But you're the first non-Weasley Wheezes employee! Of course it's different for you, we've been through so much, love," he sniffled, to which Verity rolled her eyes. "And you have to admit my plot to get rid of Sammy worked wonders, she was as thick as a plank and a troll to the kids."

"You mean you'd rather not have gotten piss drunk, publicly embarrassed and then ignored _Tammy_?" Verity snorted, waddling over to move the now empty box and open the next.

"Precisely," George nodded.

"Whatever you say, Mr Weasley."

"Should you really be exerting yourself so much? You do know you are capable of such a thing as magic? There's a wand in your pocket to help and all."

Hand supporting her lower back and the other resting on her hip, she ceased stocking to glare at her boss. "I'm pregnant, not dying. Godric, you're worse than Roger."

"I'm just looking out for you!" He held up his hands instinctively. "Don't want you suing my arse."

"Healer Jones said to rely on magic less and get plenty of exercise."

George left it at that, having remembered her pregnancy speeches which she imparted daily. He was no stranger to the rapid reactions from hormonal women – several times he had provoked his sister-in-laws and been on the receiving end to both tears and rage. He didn't much fancy going through it again, rather, he preferred watching it occur to others. Ron always had been the brother to have his foot stuck in his mouth, unintentionally spurring on the feisty women during their pregnancies.

They carried on their morning conversation with the usual pleasantries, George asking about her boyfriend, his former Hogwarts student Roger Davies, Verity informing him on how Roger is dealing with the baby, his excitement and apprehensions. Apparently, Davies had splurged on baby items: Babygro's, bibs, hats, blankets, teddies, bottles and booties in a range of colours, filling their flat with cradles and toys and rearranging the furniture constantly, indecisive on which composition was most suitable for a new-born. Verity always went home to find something new, and although she was happy that her boyfriend was overjoyed at the prospect of meeting their little one, the sex unknown, there was an undertone of melancholy in her voice, as if she was missing out on the thrills of pregnancy and was only experiencing the pain.

But she wouldn't take unnecessary time off of work, choosing to wait weeks before the due date to finally take her leave. George badgered her, pleaded and threatened, his words all shot down with a glare.

Verity's baby was as if George was becoming an uncle again. They were close friends, he liked to think, despite her resistance against the titling of their relationship beyond employer and employee. She had been there with him from the moment Wheezes opened, before that even, as she had helped plan the grand opening. The war didn't break her, and neither did the loss of Fred. If anything, it solidified their friendship and reliance on each other.

She had told him of her pregnancy in the middle of the shop months earlier, her effort being stopped all throughout the morning through the distraction of customer queries and George's fatigue. He was shocked at first, staring at her until her words pieced together in his head. Then he yelled, whooped and danced, shaking his customers and lifting the tiny children in the air and twirling them around.

It was nine-thirty by the time George chose to open up shop, standing behind the counter and flicking his wand to flip the sign. Outside, a small display of charmed fireworks were set off, replicating the words and design on the 'We're Open! Spend your money here' sign. Almost instantly the door opened and customers entered, greeting George and Verity with surprise at the early hour. George grinned at eight year old Louis, one of his favourite customers as he jumped up on the counter and hugged George around the neck.

The day passed quickly, and George was visited by most of his siblings at the shop. Ron had arrived not long after it had opened and served with George. As the shop had opened early, it was silently established upon the trio of workers that it would stay open longer. George closed it an hour later than usual.

To say he was tired would be an understatement to his flaccid bones, aching neck and wobbling legs. If there was one thing to say about George Weasley when he was working, it would be that he was a sucker for little pouty kids wanting him to try out the testers.

Drooping eyes snapped open as a delicious scent wafted into his nose, curling in his rumbling stomach. Amy had apparently already arrived and started on dinner.

Flinging his robe on the nearest chair, George strode into the kitchen and imitated Amy's early morning actions: he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her shoulder.

"Hello again," he said.

"Hi," she said, laughing at his roaming lips on her neck. "Go and change, dinner will be ready in a sec."

"I want you," he whispered, biting her skin gently.

Amy slithered out of his arms, her eyes fixed on the steaming pans. "Seriously, George. George! Stop, you're going to make me burn it."

Sighing loudly, he relented and changed hurriedly into comfortable sweatpants. He was halfway through pulling on his t-shirt when his robe flew into the room, hitting him on the face. He could vaguely hear Amy yelling at him through the fabric.

"What on earth are you wearing?" Was what he heard when he entered the kitchen. The small dining table was set immaculately.

"Clothes."

"Those? For dinner?"

"We're eating in, I don't see the problem," George said, sitting himself down. His body relaxed immediately. Amy stayed standing. "You going to eat with me or watch?"

She huffed. "This isn't a take-out dinner. I know you're tired but at least make an effort? Just a bit?"

In spite of his protesting muscles George stood up. "You're right, you made an effort and so should I."

It took him seconds to throw on a shirt and swap his sweatpants for formal trousers. He even went so far as to put on a bright pink tie with stars that zoomed in and out. He circled in front of Amy, still standing when he returned. "Happy?"

She smiled. "Yes. Thank you." She approached the table, then, at the last second, redirected to George and hugged him. "I'm sorry."

He couldn't stay annoyed. He hugged her back. "Oi, no apologies, it's fine. Let's hurry up and eat, I'm starved."

They sat down opposite each other at the round table and on their plates sat decorated…stuff.

"Er, Amy?"

She licked the creamy sauce from her lip and looked up. "Yes?"

"What's this you've made then?" he asked, smiling in a way which he hoped didn't let on that he had no clue what he was to be eating.

"Oh, silly me. It's a mushroom risotto and that," she gestured to another plate, one George first thought to be an exotic salad, "Is a crab cake with mango and pineapple salsa."

"Great. It looks fantastic."

Pleased with his comment, Amy returned to her own meal. George hesitated, then grabbed his own utensils and scooped up some risotto. He wasn't a complete idiot, he knew risotto was a type of rice, although he had never had it before. On his fork with the rice that resembled grey mush, was a mushroom. Without another thought he stopped breathing through his nose and thrust the fork into his mouth.

"Mmm," he hummed.

George hated mushrooms, but he wasn't about to tell Amy who looked like she had just been gifted the newest broomstick.

"So, any more news on the missing children?" George asked, rinsing his mouth with a glass of water.

"Nothing," she sighed. "I was working on some reports involving the newest case today, looking over the facts and trying to find any correlations with the previous cases. It's all the same. The Department of Magical Creatures aren't helping lessen the stress for us either. They keep asking us to sort out the influx of strays, take them to the pounds and other institutions working to keep them off the streets, still ongoing from the war. And on top of that – are you alright?"

George cleared his throat and pulled at his collar, taking a large sip of water. He hadn't chewed a mushroom properly, effectively lodging it in his oesophagus. He coughed a bit more. "Fine," he wheezed. "What were you saying?"

That was how he ate most of his dinner between conversations. The risotto was rather nice, George thought, but the squidgy fungus tainted it. The crab cakes, on the other hand, George shovelled into his mouth. The initial thought on the meaty crab with a fruity salsa disgusted him, but his senses disagreed with his head, and it was gone within seconds.

"Is there more?" he asked, scraping as much crumbs as he could. Amy hadn't been very generous with the serving.

"You can have mine," she replied, dodging the candle in the middle of the table – George hadn't even known he owned a candelabra – to pass him her plate.

"Cheers," he said, his mouth already overflowing with juices for the crab. Amy had eaten all of her salsa on its own, leaving only the crispy cake. The entire thing was shoved into his mouth, and without the salsa George could actually taste the crab, and he found that he didn't very much care for crab after all. With a stiff jaw, George forced himself to chew the rest.

With slightly more enthusiasm than necessary George dropped his fork and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his stomach as if his meal were cooked by the Hogwarts house elves. "That was great, Amy. Thanks for that."

She smiled in a way that made his toes curl, his heart thump and palms sweat. His empty stomach was forgotten for the rest of the night.

* * *

He was an hour late. He should have been at the Burrow ages ago. Ginny had trusted him to get there on time without any prompting.

But he couldn't stop pacing. He would walk in one direction, fully intent on apparating to the Burrow, only for his feet to carry on their mindless march. His nails were chewed down and his hair had to be tied back to stop him from pulling on it any more.

There was no actual rule stating the time of arrival for Sunday lunch, it was merely a general consensus that they all get there before lunch was served. And it's not like all of his family knew he was going to be joining them, only Bill, Ginny, Ron, Percy and their respective families. So, really, it was only his parents who were clueless. And Charlie, although he was away in Romania and hardly ever attended family lunches or dinners unless he stated weeks beforehand.

An owl pecked on the window, in its beak a red envelope. George didn't need any persuasion. In a second he swept the shot glass filled with deep amber liquid from the table and in the next he shot it down, immune to the burn he had become accustomed to over the years. It would take at least half a bottle, he guessed, for him to be remotely affected. He grabbed his wand and apparated.

Loud noises assaulted his ear, sounds he only ever heard in the shop on a busy day. It had been far too long since he had Sunday lunch at the Burrow. He was in the garden, the chicken coop just to his right. Through the oddly shaped windows he could make out his family: Molly in the kitchen, her voice booming at Ron to stop nibbling at the food, Ginny and Harry in the living room, Bill escaping the kitchen while Fleur glared at him. He couldn't see his father, Percy or Audrey.

"Unca Forge!"

He stumbled back from the impact on his legs but managed to stay standing. Blonde hair hid a face that was nestled against his legs, and his heart soared.

"Vicky," he sang, but the face that peered up at him was not little Victoire. Blonde hair slowly changed to red and freckles popped up on pale skin. "Not Vicky. Teddy!"

The little boy grinned, and the usual blue hair that was associated to the metamorphmagus appeared.

"Uncle George!" he yelled, tightening his hold. Behind him, another small figure ran from the side of the house, blonde hair billowing out behind her like the gold from a shooting star. She was screaming and laughing, her arms outstretched. Teddy loosened his grip as George bent down and captured the speedy Victoire before she collided into his legs. Each arm held a child close to him and he kissed their heads.

"Alright, Vick?" he asked the giggling girl.

"Yes! Unca Forge's here, daddy!" she shouted, the noise painful to George but he didn't calm her. "Daddy said you were coming, mama didn't think you were but I knew it! I knew you would come, Unca George. I missed you."

"And me, Uncle George," Teddy chimed in, a toothless grin on his face.

"I missed you buggers, too," George said, tickling them. They shrieked and jumped away from him, running into the house while blowing raspberries.

"Victoire!" came Fleur's yell, escaping the barrage of sounds from the house. Her French chastising followed, no doubt scolding her daughter for her juvenile behaviour.

"Mama! Unca George came! I tol' you."

George didn't need two fully functioning ears to notice the drop in volume. Movement inside seemed to pause, as if the words shocked them physically into immobility. Then, slowly, faces turned to look out the window. A deep sigh; he should have taken another shot. The children's yells urged him in, oblivious to the growing tension. George went inside.

Ginny was the first to approach him, smiling but with hard eyes. She hugged him, then said, "You look fine. Why do you look fine? Where's Helena?"

Helena was the Potter's new owl, brown with golden feathers streaked in a line on her front.

"Don't know. Why, did you send her?" George asked, kissing his sister on the cheek.

She squinted at him. "You left her. She had a howler!"

"Well, she would have dropped it when she realised I wasn't home, she's not stupid."

He manoeuvred past Ginny and greeted the people nearby, Hermione and Harry.

"George," Hermione said as George pecked her on the cheek. "Nice to see you again. I hear the shop's doing well."

God bless Hermione Granger-Weasley, George thought. She always knew how to diffuse a situation and distract a raging Ginny.

"Yeah, it's great. How are you guys? Harry."

"Alright, mate," Harry shook his hand. "Teddy and Victoire wouldn't stop singing about you all day."

"How long have you lot been here?"

"A few hours now, Hermione and Ron have only just arrived though," Harry said, rubbing his neck as a slight pink tinged his face. He refused to make eye contact, keeping his head low.

"Oh, is it, now? Prim and proper 'Mione turning up late, 'eh?" George wagged his eyebrows and winked at Hermione. "And how was your morning then?"

She huffed, both at the insinuation and the nickname. "I don't see how it's any of you concern, George."

He laughed and ruffled her hair, then jumped over to Bill before she could retaliate.

Arthur was nowhere to be seen, and Molly was the last to be greeted.

"Hello, mum," George said, opening his arms for Molly.

She turned away from the large pot and smiled at him. "George," she said, walking into his arms and kissing his chin. "How have you been?"

The politeness was suffocating, and the talk behind him quietened down, his siblings all watching the interaction. He was tempted to pull out one of his products from his pocket, one he knew would elicit a reaction he would have been comfortable with, but Molly's eyes warned him off. Or rather, the lines around them did.

"I've been good, the shop's keeping me busy," was all he said.

"Good, good. A distraction is exactly what you need," she patted his cheek. "It's good that you're putting your energy to good use at last."

The shop hadn't been referred to as 'good' from his mother in a long time.

Lunch was as rowdy as George could remember, and his stomach ached deliciously from its fullness. He had been deprived of his mother's roast for too long, and his lack of an appropriate breakfast only allowed for more meat and potatoes in his plate.

Audrey sat beside him, having been in the loo when George had arrived while Percy and Arthur were tending to the gnomes at the front of the house. Molly II was in her lap, gurgling through her mouthful of mushy carrots that covered half of her face. George bent low, a pea in each of his nostrils and carrot sticks poking out of his mouth. He crossed his eyes and growled in his throat. Molly II laughed and slapped at his face.

He could feel his mother's eyes on him, the familiar prickling of his skin. Only an idiot would be blind to her disapproval of his habits.

"George, dear," she called out eventually upon Molly II poking a carrot stick up her own nose and spitting. "George. Stop teaching Molly bad manners."

He ignored her, and chuckled as Teddy joined in, his hair glowing green as his skin tinged orange. Victoire shrieked with laughter.

"George," his mother said again, more forcefully, her gaze blazing. "GEORGE!"

All discussion ended abruptly. The children stopped laughing. Cutlery cluttered on the table. All eyes flipped between George and Molly.

"Yes, mum?" he said coolly, removing the vegetables from his face.

"I said enough," she said, fists clenched on the table. Arthur covered one with his hand.

"We were just having a laugh, weren't we, Moles?"

Little Molly giggled at George's tickling finger and squirmed in her mother's lap.

"Moles? You've nicknamed your niece, _Moles_?" Molly asked, aghast.

"It's fitting, don't you think? Moles Weasley in a Burrow."

Tense chuckles emerged from around the table. Molly was visibly seething.

"Molly," Arthur started, no doubt ready to console his wife with an easy joke, but she cut him off.

"How dare you!"

"I'm bonding with my niece, mum." George was obviously reigning in his Weasley temper. His neck flushed red. Avoiding an argument with his mother was never going to work, he knew that, and was surprised it had lasted until they had finished their lunch. He didn't want conflict with her anymore, but she didn't understand, and he hurt.

"You haven't been bothered about being a good uncle and bonding with them before," she retorted.

"They come to the shop but I'm too busy to be play with them constantly there. And it's not like they've forgotten who I am."

"Can you at least do it like an adult then? You don't see anyone else behaving like a child."

"We're not like them, mum!" he yelled, the words he had heard all of his life resurfacing warranted his outburst, the only difference being that he was alone in his defence now. "This is what we do, this is what we've always done. What else do you expect?"

"George –" Ginny said, reaching her hand over to his arm.

"For you to grow up!" Molly exploded, her arms flying in the air. Everyone knew it was no longer about playing with vegetables. They would have all welcomed an eruption over playing with vegetables. "You've always dealt with things like a brat. Excuse me for thinking my twenty-five year old son would finally get over himself and open up to his family. To his _mother!_"

"How can I tell you anything with you constantly criticising and nit-picking everything we do, everything we've ever done! You're never happy."

"That is a lie, George Weasley, and you know it."

"Mum –" Bill called sternly, his voice falling deaf on her ears.

"No. No it isn't, mum. Whatever we do it is never up to your standards." He had fallen into plurals. He didn't notice. It didn't start with only him, so it wouldn't end like that either. It wasn't only about George. "What do you want from me?"

"Why haven't you come around?" she asked, her eyes watering behind the fire. "Are you still ill? We can help you. Or are you still sleeping around and drinking? Why do you go to those – to those _whores_ instead of _me?_"

George slammed his hands on the table and stood. Even across the length of the table George towered over his mother.

"I haven't come," he began in forced composure, broken by his exclamation, "Because you are constantly down my throat about everything I've _ever done wrong!_ I slip up a bit and you bang on about it until we bleed from our ears! You said it yourself, I was ill. But rather than help me you make me worse. Yes, alright, fair enough, you made me stay here and looked after me after Fred…after Fred…but you couldn't even _look_ at me. You hardly ever used my name. And then – and then I open the shop again and you were fine with that b-but you just – you just…and then…" he had to take deep breaths before he could talk again, his blood burning and brain clouded by smoke. From the corner of his eye he could see Victoire hiding in her father's embrace.

"When I got worse. When I started the sleeping around and drinking you just dropped me like I was a bad egg. I needed _help, _mum. I needed _you_. But you were disgusted by me. What kind of a mother does that? What kind of a mother are you?"

Silence as cold as death filled the room. Tears were running freely down Molly's face and George could feel his own begin to burn. Everything that was hurting him had been locked inside him for so long, begging to be released. He had never meant for it to be unleashed so loudly, so painfully in front of his family. His heart dropped into an endless abyss at hearing his mother choke a sob.

He couldn't blame her, but he did. She had hurt too after Fred's death, probably just as much as George. She had to help bury him when George ran off after the funeral. She had to throw dirt over her son's grave, shutting him off from her deep with all the other lost souls. She hadn't used George's name to spare them from fear of calling out the wrong name. George knew all of it, but he still hurt. Why did his mother push him away when he needed her? Why did she snap at him, scold him and patronise him when was he required were soft words and warm hugs? That he did not understand.

There were so many things George wanted to tell her! Vague answers about the shop's wellbeing were not enough, his body was bursting with pride at wanting to tell Molly about its huge success, the happy customers and all the new inventions. Molly would have loved to hear about Verity's pregnancy from George, him keeping her up to date with every new detail. A new recipe he learnt and wanted to show off, to show his mum that he could aid himself.

Amy. He wanted to tell his mum about Amy. But would she just be another whore in her eyes?

His family all looked heartbroken and conflicted. Arthur held his wife in his arms, whispering into her ear. Victoire was silent, but her trembling body told George everything, of her confusion and sadness. Molly II, on the other hand, was weeping loudly, her cries merging with her namesake's, amplified through Audrey's shoulder instead of subdued.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice so quiet he couldn't be sure whether anyone heard him or not. "I'm so sorry."

People stood up, eyes on George, crying out for him. He ignored them all. Eyes locked on the face of his broken mother, he apparated away to the only one who could heal him.


	6. The Demons are Weak in the Shadows

**Possibly the last chapter of this story until July. Perhaps. Hopefully. Thank you to _zaneri0t _for helping me get Microsoft Word on my new laptop, enabling me to finish this chapter and update! Once again, thank you for all the reviews/follows/favourites!**

* * *

Mending Broken Souls: The Demons are Weak in the Shadows

* * *

"George?"

It was like the call and urging of the demons he heard in the blackness of nowhere, only the absence of hissing made him aware to his consciousness, this was no nightmare, no plaguing of his mind. The voice was desperate and light – so breathtakingly light and sweet and worried.

The flat was dark when he heard his name being called in that voice, the sound distorted as if drifting through a depth of water. The numbness dissolved, and his other senses soon awakened. The bathroom floor was cold under his bare feet, and dark spots were visible against the white, the wet dirt itchy on his skin. He stretched, bones protesting any movement, his body aching all over from having fallen asleep on the tiles.

"George?" the voice said again, moving closer to the bathroom. Glass crunched underneath the wandering feet and a light shone brightly from the gap under the door. It swung open, and George slammed his eyes shut, temporarily blinded. Behind his hand he blinked harshly, adjusting his eyes to the light, and slowly put his arm down, revealing the tired face of Arthur Weasley.

"I didn't drink those," was the first thing George said, his voice as raspy and dry as a cracker.

"Come on, son," Arthur said, helping George off the ground. Supporting his back with one hand, he led his son out of the bathroom and to the living room, slowly, George adjusting to movement once again, and seating him down on the sofa. "Do you need anything?"

"Water," he groaned, cushioning his head on his crossed arms.

Water gushed from the tap and Arthur handed the tall glass over, the cool liquid flowing down his throat into his stomach. He downed the glass in one.

"Cheers," George said, dropping the glass and watching it roll.

Arthur pushed aside the robe thrown on the sofa and squeezed himself beside George. George didn't want to see the look on his father's face as he observed the room. He knew the state it was in – he had done it. Bottles littered the floor, puddles of the alcohol staining the fabric of the sofa and carpet, its musky smell smothering in the humid apartment. Wheezes order forms and products were strewn along the hallway, a trail leading to the bathroom. With a flick of his wand the window shot open, allowing a cool breeze to blow in, airing the flat.

George sighed. He was tired, so, so tired.

"George," Arthur said. "How are you?"

"Peachy," he murmured. His stomach rumbled and a burp blew out, followed by a cough.

Arthur nodded, hands rubbing against each other. "I've been meaning to visit the shop but work's been keeping me busy. How is everything? And Verity – how's she?"

"Great."

"That's good to hear, son."

Silence took over, each Weasley gathering their thoughts and mulling over the events of the day.

"You ran off pretty quickly earlier," Arthur commented. When George didn't respond, he continued. "Your brothers and sisters went off to look for you. They couldn't find you anywhere, and after a while Percy said to let you be. We were all worried."

"I needed…"

"Yes, son?" Arthur said, his voice coming out hopeful. George's gut clenched.

"I needed…someone."

"Oh. I see."

Suffocating in the enclosed space offered by his arms against the arm of the sofa, George lifted his head, breathing in deeply, and looked at his father, actually _looked_ at him.

"Merlin, you look like shite," George said before he could filter his thoughts, but to his immense relief his father laughed. Arthur Weasley looked terrible. His odd assortment of muggle clothes were scruffy, untucked and dirty in several places; his thinning red hair wiry and tousled, as if he had drove the new family car with his head out of the window; his face heavily wrinkled and drooping, accentuated by the purple bags residing under his dull blue eyes.

"Haven't been sleeping very well," he answered, a tight smile on his lips.

George knew what was coming. Since he could first remember his father had always delayed in offering a soft lecture that was more akin to a simple chat on mores and manners. There had only been a handful of times where Arthur had scolded George, and only once had he raged and seethed until his red face tinged blue. Molly was the thundering parent, erupting over the smallest things. Arthur was laidback, which made more of an impression when he was the one to address George.

Before Arthur could begin, George spoke.

"I'm sorry," he said, his throat constricting that little bit. "For worrying you all."

"Is that all?"

"I'm not sorry about what I said to mum."

Arthur sighed. "George –"

"What I said was right. Mum needed to hear that."

"I know, George."

George didn't seem to hear, his words tumbling out in a panic to be understood, to get the gremlin off his chest. "I don't feel like I can talk to her anymore, she's just always condescending and treating me like a child just like she's always done and it's driving me mad when all I need is someone to _listen_ and to – to –" He looked up then, at his father's pitying smile. "You know?"

"We all have some inkling, George," Arthur said softly, knowing how quickly George could snap at the mere mention of anyone possibly understanding his predicament. "But we lean on each other. Your mother..." he sighed. "Your mother has been dealing with it differently from us all – like you. She doesn't allow herself to dwell on things so much, rather she acts on impulse. I have to say though, she was behaving remarkably well earlier. She just couldn't hold it all in." He chuckled, staring down at a spot on the carpet. "You always were good at making your mother snap."

Their eyes met, both moist. They blinked them harshly before resuming. "But it's good, what happened today. Hopefully your mother's got it all off her chest and you can now move on. You can start by explaining to me this girl you've been seeing."

George's head snapped up, although he didn't look very shocked. "Ron?"

"Percy, actually," Arthur chuckled.

George joined in and brushed his hair back. "When did he tell you?"

"Yesterday. He came over with Molly and Audrey after seeing you at the shop, accidentally slipped it out. You're lucky your mother was out in the garden."

Noticing George's hesitance on divulging anything about the girl, Arthur clapped him on the shoulder. "You don't have to tell me anything. I can tell she's good for you. Just…just let me know if anything happens, alright?"

"Dad, I…" he sighed, pressed his fingertips on the bridge of his nose and tried forcing the words to come. They didn't. "I went to Fred, after lunch. I didn't drink those."

He gestured to the bottles all around the flat.

"I – I spilled some, outside and in the sink. The rest broke when I…I hit them. I didn't drink any, I swear."

"That's great, son," Arthur grinned tiredly and squeezed his shoulder. "You're doing good. I knew you would."

A surge of warm pride emanated from his stomach and spread through his body at his father's praise. It urged him to improve, to do better and work harder at fighting the demons that purred to him in the shadows. He had been close to chugging the bitter alcohol, to drowning himself in the blissful numbness and emptiness it brought. The bottle was warm in his hand, trembling from the conflicting emotions and adrenaline like fire in his blood. It had touched his lips, the alcohol close – _so close – _to slipping in his mouth and down his throat, leaving the familiar burning trail down into his stomach.

And then a voice, soothing and firm laughed in his head. It wasn't Fred, although when he looked at the grave he could almost see Fred rolling his eyes and mocking George for his weakness.

The first bottle was smashed on the ground. George had glared at it until his eyes stung. Then he went home and raided his stash of alcohol, destroying all of it until there was none left. He was not weak, merely, he chose to forget, chose to drink away his bitterness and anger at the universe. But that was the weak way of living. In fact, he realised, it was not living at all. Living without emotion – can you call that living? No happiness, no sadness, no excitement or frustration. No love.

He had felt lighter as he watched the dark liquid drip down the drain, and broken shards of glasses dead on the ground.

But there was underlying guilt eating away at him against the warmth. His father was unaware of the circumstances in which George had found Amy, had been acting the last few months, drunk and mindless and inside numerous women, many of who he could not recollect. Shame welled up in him, and he wanted to cry in his father's arms, the first time he had felt like doing so in so long – years.

"Did it help, seeing Fred?" Arthur began rubbing his back firmly, and instantly George's spine curled from the delightful relief evoked.

"Yeah," he cleared his throat. "It always does."

"I know that if it helps that I should encourage you – which I am – but, we are here, George. And it kills us when you push us away and ignore us. We feel helpless. And we have to just watch you break. It _kills_, son. Please, try."

George covered his eyes with his hand and his body jumped at the sob that escaped him. Arms engulfed him, bringing him to his father's body. George buried his face in his father's chest and bit his lip, embarrassed by the urge to blubber like a baby; no one was ever too old to be comforted by their parent, to slump under pressure and take support.

"Does mum hate me?" he asked, his voice barely audible against his father's soft robe. He was smothered by the familiar smell, inhaling it and retreating to a life years and years ago where the same worry leaving his lips would have been prompted by a raging Molly.

"Of course not!" Arthur said, arms tightening and hand stroking his hair. "Don't be daft, George. Your mum loves you – we all love you. Don't you dare for a second, even _think_ otherwise. We love you. We're here for you, son, always."

He let go. Eyes shut tight, he cried in his father's lap. The tears washed away his pain, the pain that haunted and conquered him for years.

Arthur murmured soft words and encouragement to his son, holding him through the night until they fell asleep.

Early in the morning, a figure Flooed into the flat, watched over the two slumbering Weasley's and then placed a box on the kitchen table, steaming with the delicious smells of an array of pastries. A wand waved, clearing the room of all its evidence of chaos. A light blanket was draped over the two men. The hand went out to touch the men, to stroke skin and hair, but retreated. Arthur Weasley smiled in his sleep.

* * *

Wednesday night came speeding, and George found himself clearing the back room of the store. His night on Sunday with his father had lifted the boulder that had settled itself on his back since Fred's death, and he finally ventured to sort out his late twin's desk.

It was untouched, covered in dust and cobwebs since the war. It was curtained off from the rest of the room, too distracting when George was trying to work. Fred's quill was still there, thrown on the table from the rush of leaving the room when the Death Eaters attacked Diagon Alley. They hadn't returned to the shop after that, becoming consumed with Order missions, preparing for the war and Potterwatch.

Fur from an original pygmy puff was on the corner, a distinct fusion of green and purple that formed the colour of a swamp. Blueprints and order forms in Fred's messy scrawl were crumpled and organised messily. Those customers who had never received their products, unaware of Fred having been the one to scribble a message back and to package their order. Did they order the products again once Wheezes reopened? Did they ever consider the notion of their orders being the last to be read by Fred, him laughing at all the wickedly wonderful things that he believed fate had supposedly held for those products?

George placed it all in a box, opting to do it all by hand opposed to magic. It made it more personal, more intimate going through everything once, twice, sometimes three times, and marvelling over the little things that seemed so inconsequential during life that held stories after death. He pulled open the drawer having cleared the table, and his heart clenched.

It could have easily been mistaken for an Extendable Ear, the object being an ear, although it wasn't as large, and the edges were frayed slightly. George hadn't seen this before. There was a note attached to it, stuck on with a plaster painted with Muggle cartoon images – a gift from Alicia after he had grazed his arm from Quidditch practice one too many times. With shaking hands, he pulled off the parchment and began reading.

_Georgie! Nice to see you've finally given in to your peeping inner git-edness. And if you're not George, put this down and get the hell away before I blast your head off. I'll give you ten seconds…one…two…TEN_

There was a small tingle in his fingers from where he held the parchment, and a light smoke lifted from it. George snorted, the charm having died down over the years. Fred must have charmed it in a hurry; he had been the better twin at charms.

_George? Good. _

_Now, there are two reasons as to how you've come upon this. It's either still during the war, and you are, like I mentioned, being a sneaky shit and going through my things. Two, it's after the war, and I'm dead._

_OI – cheer up! If I'm dead and you're reading this (because Merlin knows I would have given the gift to you and burned this letter if I lived), it's obvious I've been dead awhile. I can't imagine you reading this any short time after, what with the depression and all that – you always were the sap._

_I'm haunting you right now, by the way. Look over your shoulder – go on! There's a magazine under your chair, see it? My secret, craziest magazine of veela porn. Treasure it always. Use it after you finish reading this, I'd hate to think of you wanking before you know what I have to say._

_Right, the ear. As you've probably already guessed, it's not an Extendable Ear. Right clever, fetching sod you are. I've been working on it for quite some time now, but I never got around to finishing it. I almost did, and then I got inspiration from the war to expand on it._

_Underneath this should be another piece of parchment (I used the rainbow quill so you can't miss it), and on it, the instructions and magic behind this. It's a prosthetic. BEFORE YOU START GOING VAIN ON ME LIKE I KNOW YOU TEND TO BE (I've seen you flexing in front of the mirror before, brother), I'm not trying to say your dodgy head looks shite. Because it doesn't. It shows you being a hero, fighting for the Order against Lord Mouldypants and his smelly, butt ugly minions. But I know how it makes you feel to be different, to be pitied and to be the less attractive twin._

_Kidding. You're a right handsome devil._

_It started with me making this for you, then I realised that it's probably best if you don't wear it – you don't need it. I've given it to you anyway. What I want is for you to use the plans attached. I want you to make more prosthetics, for those little and old buggers damaged by the war. I'm not sure if Mungos is doing this sort of thing now…but you can still give it a shot, you know, use it as a prank, maybe make the arms pop out claws, have a holding place for wands, stuff like that._

_You're doing amazing, George. I'm proud of you. Don't give up._

_You always were the stronger twin._

_Fred Michael Weasley_

_PS. Name your kid after me. I swear to Merlin if you don't I will actually haunt you. And not in the nice Headless Nick way._

Under the adjacent desk, taped to the chair was a magazine with a winking veela greeting George.

* * *

Ron was shoved against a wall, a crowd of children barging past him to get their hands on all the products they possibly could. Just as he saw a clearing in the stampede and made a move to escape, a young girl jumped in front of him, her fist landing in his sensitive spot. His face screwed up, eyes rolled backwards, and he slumped onto his knees, his hands cupping his groin.

"Ron – stop slacking and get back to stocking!" George yelled to him.

There were few things the young Weasley male could say he absolutely hated, but none surpassed Wheezes sales days.

It always happened just a few weeks before the students would leave for Hogwarts and would continue up until the first of September. Every year it would seem that the entire wizarding population would venture into Diagon Alley all at once, the children all gravitating towards the lively joke shop. On days like these George always stayed open much later than usual, so it was shocking to the employees when George urged all the customers out only thirty minutes after closing time.

Sharing a bemused look, Ron and Verity pulled off their robes and stood by the counter.

"Alright, you two, you can go," George said once the door was locked and the gizmos turned off with a wave of his wand.

Simultaneously, the two crossed their arms and quirked an eyebrow at him. He continued fiddling with the products and his robes, then, finally noticing no movement from Ron and Verity, he stopped.

"Is there a problem?" he asked. "Care to do the books? I thought I'd give you the evening off, what with it being Friday, but feel free to –"

"Cut the crap," Verity said, one hand unconsciously going to support her bulging stomach. Although she refused to acknowledge George as a friend she had no qualms speaking to him as one. "Why'd you close so early?"

"Early? No, no, my dearest Verity – I believe the bugger growing in your stomach must be addling your brain if you think _this_ is early."

"You know what I meant."

Looking between the two, George knew he couldn't escape their inquisitive gazes with the lie he had been working on all day. He sighed. "I have a date."

The duo showed juxtaposing reactions: Ron rolling his eyes and pushing himself off the counter to get his belongings; a knowing smirk pulling on Verity's lips.

"I see," Verity said. "Well, I'll be off then. Have a lovely night, Mr Weasley."

George helped her with her bag, to which he received a glare from the pregnant witch. Ron fiddled with this and that, delaying his departure, and when Verity retreated to the flat to Floo home, the sound of the door shutting alerting them to her deafness to the happenings in the shop, Ron awkwardly approached his brother.

"Alright?" he asked, his attempt at nonchalance failing through shifty eyes and a tinge of pink colouring his neck.

"Yeah. You good?" George asked, moving behind the counter to the till. He couldn't help but smirk at Ron's discomfort.

"Great," he answered quickly. If George were able to see Ron's brain he would witness a picture akin to people on a bouncy castle, some jumping higher and harder but just as the fleeting thought of flying entered their minds, they would fall, only for another person to jump and fall, and another, and another. Ron never did know in what order to speak when this thoughts were running amok. "George, about Sunday…" he sighed. "Mum didn't mean any of it, you know that. The kids…they're stumped over what happened. They're afraid they won't see you for months again."

So that was the reason Bill hadn't offered to help during the week. George could imagine a distressed Victoire holding her father back upon him mentioning anything to do with the store, not until he gave her answers as to what she had witnessed over lunch. She was a smart child, and very manipulative.

But Victoire would have demanded her father bring her, not disallowing him to come altogether. He couldn't understand. But it wasn't a nice feeling.

"I'm not ready to talk to mum yet, Ron," George said. "But I promise I won't leave things sour for long, alright?"

Ron nodded. "So I guess you won't be coming for Sunday lunch?"

"I'll think about it."

As soon as Ron left, George hurried to get ready for his date. He had hardly seen Amy the entire week and was anxious to spend time with her again and forget about his family for a while.

The nightclubs around Diagon Alley were always a wild and energetic scene on Friday nights, colours bursting through the darkness of night and music vibrating through the walls. George could not keep his eyes off Amy, her slim figure accentuated by a modest yet revealing blue dress, her legs tall in black heels.

They were just around the corner from the nightclub they were to be spending their night at when they were met with an overexcited couple openly embracing and snogging against a wall. They were an odd pairing, George thought, the man large and slick with sweat from what he could see on his bald head, whereas the girl was young and much thinner. Her wild dark hair was gripped tightly and she gasped at his wandering hand. As the man's face nestled against her neck George clearly saw her face, and noticed it was the tramp he had walked past countless times.

She groaned, and George acted on instinct.

"Oi!"

The man was pulled off her and Amy was quick to pull out her wand on him.

"'Ey! Wha' yeh doin'?" the man said, struggling against George's hands fisting his robes.

"I'm arresting you for attempted rape, hold out your hands," Amy ordered.

"Rape? Yer jokin'. I ain't rapin' 'er! Go on, tell 'em."

George quirked his eyebrow at the man, but he was pushed aside by the dirty, smaller woman. She grabbed the man's hand.

"See? Tol' yehs."

Amy looked between the two and scoffed, pocketing her wand. With a final glare at the two she turned on her heel and pulled George away.

"Revolting," Amy spat as they walked up to the entrance of the building. "Little gold-digger. Women like that disgust me. And to do it in such a public place with a hideous troll."

"It's your night off, forget about it," George whispered, his hand resting on her back.

And she did. Pounding music thumped all around them, dominating the bodies within to dance in tune with the beat. Musky and sweet smells permeated the air around them, sweat, perfume, alcohol and sex. The combination of the sickly scents invaded George's nostrils, drugging him. The oddly paired couple outside forgotten, George's hands rested on Amy's waist as she approached the bar.

He had always been the centre of attention and popular, so it was instinct, really, feeling the eyes of many on them like spiders crawling over his skin. The curves moulded against his front shifted, the prickling feel he was so accustomed to mirroring it. His grip tightened and his lips tasted the flesh of her neck. Amy sighed, and George smirked in satisfaction – no one would mess with her tonight. She was taken.

Amy ordered a drink, and asked George what he wanted. Dark, shimmering powder surrounded her eyes, pink lips curved in a seductive smile. Instead of answering, George swooped down and kissed her forcefully. The bitter substance on her lips did nothing to deter him as he satiated his thirst for her tongue. The only drink George tasted that night was the alcohol from her mouth.

"No drinking. What's happened to the George I know?"

"His demons are dying. One by one." He kissed her temple.

The barman nodded to George as they retreated from the bar and shoved their way to a secluded area, roped off from the main dancefloor.

"VIP? And how did you manage this?" George asked, sitting down on the plush sofa and spreading out his limbs. There were few other witches and wizards.

"The manager owed me," Amy answered. She sat down on George's lap, one arm thrown around his shoulders and the other holding her drink as she sipped it slowly.

"My brave witch, fighting evil."

"Mmm. Say that again."

"What? Witch?"

He smirked at her glare.

"_My_, brave witch."

She kissed him, dropping her empty glass and grabbing at him, his hair, his shirt, his neck – _anywhere_. Her hair was silky through his fingers, and he wanted to be closer, plunging his tongue into her mouth, tasting around her teeth and gums – not close enough. The atmosphere was drugging him, clouding his senses, and all he could see, all he could feel was Amy. _Amy, Amy, Amy._ The long legs he admired so much managed to straddle him and their bodies pushed together. _Still not close enough._ His fingers trailed down her neck, tickled her spine and fingered her dress before resting on her backside and squeezing.

"What happened to…doing things in public…places?" he smirked.

"We're not doing anything."

"Oh, really?"

She nibbled his neck, his collarbone, then connected with his lips once more before she sat back.

"Really."

He laughed and smoothed her hair down, although even with all his pulling and grabbing it hadn't ruffled much.

"Fine by me. I'm not that into giving others a show."

A slower beat came on, relaxing their hammering hearts. George asked Amy about her week: work, friends and meals. He realised that despite the connection he felt, he knew little about her other than her occupation and wealth. They used the calmness of the privileged area to explore each other's interests and hobbies, their lives outside of work and their relationship between sharing kisses and dances, ending before their hormones bested them.

Amy was rather predictable. George could have guessed she was not an animal person. She spoke little of any friends, remaining ambiguous on the few she anonymously mentioned in passing. George thought it was perhaps because of embarrassment, what with him having been popular and her a wallflower. She did not elaborate on them, and George moved on to her favourite foods, correct in his assumption of her preferring healthy, savoury foods, attributed to her position as Auror and need to be fit and strong.

The topic of family was uncomfortable to them both, and thus was a short discussion on the number of siblings – incredibly short seeing as Amy already knew of George's brothers and sister and her lack of siblings. When Fred's name was mentioned Amy remained impassive, only offering a sympathetic smile and a rub on the shoulder. George didn't know whether to be grateful or bothered.

Loud cheers erupted from the dancefloor and they turned to see a group of drunks replicating a dance unsuccessfully. They were falling over each other and stumbling into the crowd, the clear space encircling them too small for their drunken antics. An internal bristle of disgust – how many times had George been in a similar state? It was embarrassing for him to think.

Security escorted the men out and the couple shared one last dance encourage by the bass pumping through them. It was only when George failed to suppress another yawn as they returned to their seats they decided to leave.

If possible, the sky was darker than when they had arrived, and the streets were almost completely barren. They were in no rush to return to the flat, and strolled through the pleasant night. The warm breeze and crooning owls pacified the throbbing in George's ear. He was utterly relaxed and refreshed. The absence of alcohol in his system was a big contributing factor. His thoughts were free, not clouded; his vision clear; his soul unperturbed. Beside him stood the most gorgeous woman he had ever laid eyes on – more so than those exotic veelas he had glanced over – and he thanked all above for being blessed with her. She was perfect as she strode purposely, eyes fixed ahead of her. His fingers ran along her waist, slowly at first, watching her peak at him from the corner of her eye, and intensifying until she shrugged his arm off.

"I'm not ticklish."

"Damn," he cursed, wrapping himself around her and nosing her hairline. He pecked her temple, then whispered, "I guess I'll just have to find other ways to make you squirm."

A strangled whimper came from around the corner followed by the distinct sound of skin on skin. George and Amy shared a glance before hurrying over to the shadows. It wasn't an odd occurrence, rather common in Amy's line of work to deal with drunken brawls and attempted rape. There had been many cases where silly tipsy petting escalated into grabbing hands, eager mouths and excited nerves. Alcohol was always the excuse, the smoky haze controlling the transition from iniquitous thoughts to actions. George had heard similar stories from Ron and Harry, and his upbringing had always been to go out of his way to help others, regardless of his own agenda on a restricted schedule on a weekday night.

They approached the couple shrouded in darkness and lit their wands. Amy growled in her throat.

"Come on, George, this is a waste of time."

She grabbed his hand, already turned to walk away, but George saw the frightened face, panicked eyes meeting his, and charged.

"George!"

He dived at the pitiful excuse for a man, a different one from earlier, forcefully groping the tramp against her struggles, the impact taking them both to the floor. His body tensed and struggled against the fists flying through the air at him, fighting to be free of George's crushing weight. The flashing image of her open top and bruised skin burned his blood. He didn't think – couldn't think rationally, his vision painted red. His own fists attacked relentlessly. Her distressing cry reached his ears, distracting him for less than a moment, but it was long enough for him to be flipped over.

His head slammed against the ground and his vision blurred. He needed to breathe; the body atop him was pressing down on his lungs. Rough hands wrapped around his neck, the thumbs compressing deep into his throat. George clawed at the hands and the face, his finger scratching at the skin. Black spots were taking over his vision, his neck aching from the pain – _unbearable_ pain, burning his insides. George was choking. His weakened limbs could only feebly hold onto the absolute _shit_ attempting to kill him. Funny, George humoured himself, that his last sight would be the ugly bugger sitting on him when only moments ago he was in awe over the most wonderful beauty.

The attacker's head jerked to the side, his hands slackening, and George conjured the energy to push him off. There was no time for him to relish in the sweetness of the fresh summer air. He scrambled in his pocket for his wand, his eyes locked on the groaning man. As soon as his hands gripped the familiar wood he held it before him and locked the writhing man in a Body Bind curse.

Adrenaline was still pumping through him, but his feet were yet to stabilise as he swayed from side to side. Ignoring his aching skull he turned his attention to the trembling woman attempting to conceal herself against the wall. Her chest was heaving, her body visibly shaking.

"You alright?" George asked.

No response but the flicker of her eyes.

"You might want to…" his finger gesticulated to her torn top exposing much, but not all, of her breast. Amy tutted when no move was made to cover herself and fixed the rip with her wand.

"How's your head?" Amy asked George, pressing her hand to his head. He hissed and flinched at the sting and saw blood on her hand. "You need to get that checked out."

"I'll be fine."

"You're bleeding, George."

"I can sort it out after."

"George –"

"I'm not the priority right now, Amy."

She was still staring down at the creep on the floor when George approached her.

"Hey," he smiled.

"You need to report this, madam," Amy said proficiently, evidently in Auror mode. "Something like this could happen again to another girl. It's best you do it when you have the details fresh in your mind. I'll contact an Auror on duty and they can collect you."

"Amy," George warned. "She's shaken up, give her a moment."

A large rock tumbled to the ground from her hand, shining a glossy red in the minimum light. George gently took her hand in his own and inspected the gash. Silently, for he was afraid any noise would scare the poor thing, he checked her over for any more injuries, finding only bruises and few cuts over her torso and face.

"Are you okay with me taking you to St Mungos?" he asked. She shook her head frantically and began to back away, but George held her close. "It's okay, it's okay, I won't force you. Promise."

Dark, unkempt hair shielded most of her face, just like the last time he had seen her.

He asked more questions, attempted to get her to say something – anything, but to no avail. Amy, much to his pleasure, stayed out of the way and silent. Eventually, he turned to her, and murmured lowly. Her face screwed up, mouth open ready to refute when George towed the girl away by her hand. She obediently followed.

They arrived to Wheezes in no time and he helped her up to his flat, settling her down on the sofa. George summoned his healing supplies with his wand.

"What's your name?" George tried again, dabbing a cloth in the potion and rubbing her hand clear of blood. The stinging liquid was lost on her – not even a flinch. "Did you know the guy?"

Again, nothing. George sighed, and healed the remainder of her wounds.

He directed her to his room, laying her down and covering her with a blanket. Amy was waiting for him when he emerged.

"Before you say anything, she's in shock. You can come around first thing and take her to the Aurors to get her to file a report." Amy nodded. "Where's the pig? Please tell me you've found him and he's on his way to Azkaban."

"Notified the Aurors on duty. I told them what I knew. They're dealing with him."

His hands sought her arms and embraced her tightly, kissing her. "Thank you."

"It's my job. Your head?"

"Could you?" he smiled sheepishly, fatigue washing over him.

She rolled her eyes but waved her wand along the cut on his head, sealing the ripped skin.

"You're lucky it wasn't a big cut. Just make sure to look after it so it doesn't become damaged again."

"My angel."

"You need a haircut," she fingered the ends of his hair with a frown.

"I like it long," George whined, collapsing on the sofa, bringing Amy down with him. The adrenaline was now almost completely diminished, replaced by exhaustion. He was so tired.

"I'm going to head home now. I'll see you tomorrow."

All he could manage was a hum. Her sweet lips – none of that horrible sticky stuff left – lightly touched his, once, twice, before her warmth left him.

He would deal with everything in the morning. He was tired.


	7. Beginning of Three Nights

**Enjoy! This was a cow to write. Review! **

* * *

Mending Broken Souls: Beginning of Three Nights

* * *

The bloody stain wouldn't disappear. He had used all the cleaning supplies he could find in his flat, not that there were very many, three at the most, and still the stain was taunting him. It wasn't a very large stain, just a small splatter of sauce on the wall. George knew that with a wave of his wand he could easily vanish it, but what magic could easily solve would only hinder the recovery of his mood he was attempting to burn out through vigorous rubbing, and George was well on his way to sulking. The act of scrubbing as harshly as possible kept his mind at bay from the news he was desperate to ignore, focusing on the dull red embedded into the paint.

"Bloody, shitting, tomato sauce. What the fuck did I ever do to you, bastard stain," he muttered venomously, his words spitting as his knuckles whitened at the ferocity of his scouring.

"It's only a weekend, George, I'm sure you'll be fine."

An abundance of profanities poured out of his mouth at the Bolognese sauce. He couldn't even recall the last time he had cooked spaghetti.

"Come on, George, you don't want to be wasting the time that I am here. Just use your wand, honestly."

He dropped his arm with a huff, glaring at the offending muddy red mark before obliging and waving his wand, watching it instantly fade away. Leaving the sponge and bottles of sprays he crossed over to Amy, leaning against the side of the kitchen, arms crossed with a smile curving her lips. Arms winding around her, he pulled her in close and inhaled her hair, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

The previous night's activities had enabled him to sleep like a baby and snore like a hippogriff, escaping to the world of dreams the moment his head dropped on his cushion. The sofa wasn't the most comfortable place to sleep, but George had been incredibly tired. He had woken up refreshed with the sun glowing a marvellous gold through his curtains, clear eyed with absolutely no alcohol induced pain or haziness. After taking the initial morning trip to the loo, he danced to the kitchen and pulled out everything he needed for a full English. A quick glance to his bedroom door showed that it was still closed, the girl must have still been asleep. It was difficult to discern when the poor girl had last had a good night's sleep, so he assumed she must have been taking advantage of the comfort.

Finishing his frying of eggs, bacon, beans, tomatoes, and some toast (never mushrooms, and he had noted to himself to buy some more sausages), he put it on a large tray with a cup of tea and made his way to the door, opening it with only slight fidgeting. But he stood frozen, eyes wide at the empty and rumpled bed. She had gone. And he had no idea what to do.

All morning he kicked himself at work, fixing a smile on his face whenever he could. He found himself staring out the windows to see if he could get a glimpse of her wild hair; she was a regular mendicant of Diagon Alley, it was the hot spot for many of the impoverished, where they received the most knuts and sickles and pitying looks. Who knew what kind of condition she was in? She had almost been raped, surely she was in some level of shock? With no home to go to, most likely no family to help her, what would she do?

Saving her had left George feeling a degree of responsibility, but with her gone he was consumed with guilt over her wellbeing. How could he make sure she was safe and clear minded when he had no idea where the bloody hell she had disappeared to? Or even why she had legged it in the first place?

He couldn't begin to understand the thoughts of a victim of attempted rape. He didn't want to.

Amy had turned up shortly after him finding the empty bedroom in her Auror uniform, ready to escort her to the Ministry. She was rightfully irate upon finding only George, having already filed the beginnings of a report that was to be left unfinished seeing as the victim had run off. Her unknown identity meant that Amy couldn't even attempt to find her in the records to track her down, something she verbally huffed over but didn't seem to actually mind – less of her time wasted on someone like her. There was no trace of a wand having been used, no magical residue left over, which ruled out the notion of her having apparated out. She had walked right past George out the door and he had been none the wiser.

It had taken a while getting her to calm down and when he had he offered her his left over breakfast, she declined and returned to work, promising George a visit later.

And she had turned up. But with news that found George ripping into his cupboards to finally clean that bleeding stain.

"Do you have to go for an entire weekend?" he murmured, rubbing his nose into her hair.

"You know I do. It's only a weekend away training, I'm sure you'll be having more fun here," she replied, leading them to the sofa where they sat, George never removing his arms from her.

"You'll be in the Caribbean, how the hell is England meant to compete with that?" he whined.

She rolled her eyes. "Honestly, George, it's two days. And it's not as if I'll be having any kind of fun that doesn't include stunning and defensive spells on this apparently new and dangerous hex."

"Three nights seeing as you're leaving on Friday."

"A night where after seeing me off you'll be out clubbing with your friends."

"Without the most gorgeous witch in all of Diagon Alley? I'll have to actually pay for entry then."

He didn't want to admit it but it would be the first time since they met that he would be without her. More or less everyday they kept some form of contact, whether it was sending owls after a particularly harrowing day, lunch dates, dinner dates or even just seeing her walking past the shop. George knew that without a shadow of a doubt it was Amy who had started the process of returning the old George and burying the new shell he had morphed into after the war. Before her arrival into his life George was unpredictable, no routine but the mindless ambling from flat to shop to the Burrow to the Leaky.

Perhaps the biggest achievement of all was that he was five days sober. Five days of not succumbing to the shadows of his mind, cherishing the thought of death finally ending its mockery and taking his soul from him. There wasn't anything else to indicate his terminating alcohol but her; never in the last five years had he contemplated parting from his only source of fractional relief. Even when he had promised his family he would restrict it he hadn't really meant it, but knowing that those were words they wanted to hear, even if to only clear their guilt at watching him openly destroy himself.

Never before had George felt the need to rely on someone other than Fred, but he was not with him any longer, and there was no war that he needed support in but the one raging inside of him.

He wasn't about to scare her off by admitting just how far she had wormed her way into his life, whether she was aware of it or not.

"Good, you don't seem to be spending your hard earned money on anything particularly tasteful," Amy said, eyes gesturing to the old pyjamas he wore that he had found at the bottom of his wardrobe. It was satiny red with the Wheezes logo splattered all around in an assortment of colours, whizzing, expanding, fizzing, smoking, spinning. It was a complete eye sore.

"I hope you're not insulting my lamp," George warned with a gasp.

"Sticking a jumper over it doesn't turn it into a lamp."

"It does if it turns the light blue."

Once again she rolled her eyes, knowing when she was fighting a lost battle.

"You could always spend the weekend with your friends, Lee, was it? And Oliver. You haven't mentioned them much."

"I haven't, have I?" George murmured, thinking how true she was. When was the last time he had seen any of his friends?

They were a quiet for a moment, pondering over Amy's words. George sat leaning against the arm of the sofa, one leg sprawled out against the back and pulled Amy's back into his chest.

"But then neither have you. Tell me about them, the lucky buggers you get to gossip with over champagne."

She scoffed. "I'd have thought you would know me better than to suggest I gossip."

"Stop dodging the topic."

"This calls for some wine," she said, leaning across the coffee table to grab the bottle of Elvish wine she had brought over and two glasses. "Want some?"

"No, I'm alright."

She eyed him. "George, going completely off alcohol isn't good for your body. You need to slowly let it out of your system, get yourself adjusted to not wanting it anymore. An abrupt withdrawal will only make you crave it afterwards. I've seen cases of alcoholics almost drinking themselves to death like that."

George hesitated.

"Would you rather some firewhiskey?"

"No, wine's fine," he finally assented. Only on certain occasions had found George sipping on wine. Christmas, birthdays, anniversary parties, dinner parties, dates. The drink was too sweet to his liking, and had never gotten him near drunk, which he assumed was why his family offered it to him. He concluded it safe to have some sips. After all, he didn't want to end up drinking himself to death anymore, not like an alcoholic. Not anymore.

He took the proffered glass and held it to the side.

"So, friends," she took a sip of her wine. "I didn't have many, only one who I can say has been with me since first year. She's an alright girl, loyal and kind. She went by Roo."

"An 'alright girl'? You must have a spiffing friendship," George couldn't help but interject with a chuckle.

"Well, we weren't attached by the hip. We were focused on our studies most of the time."

"But surely not _every _second of _every _day? You must have had time to hang out."

Amy shrugged. "Of course, silly. We know everything about each other, enough not to suffocate each other with our presence constantly. We didn't need to be together all the time, although she was rather insecure and would do almost anything to get on with people. But a nice girl."

An image popped into George's mind, and then another falling over it like a feather, creating a slideshow of images of his life from childhood, of him and Fred being together, doing everything together. He understood Amy's isolation, only his was unintentional, and he could not for the life of him understand why Amy and Roo would want to be separate if they had a strong bond.

"Do you believe in fate?" she asked after a pregnant pause of sipping wine.

He scoffed. "What's fate ever done for me?"

"A lot. Things you probably would never have even thought of, like water, shelter and clothes, things aside from the obvious of your business."

"That wasn't fate's doing," George said vehemently. "That was dad, working his arse off to provide for us all. It wasn't fair, not with the state of things, not with the war, the ridiculing, the pover – the less than stellar conditions we were brought up in. We deserved so much more, not to watch our parents struggle on their knees. _They_ deserved more."

"But it's all better now. You were born in your family for a reason, your family struggled for a reason. You have everything now, everything that you never had before –"

"And all it cost was for me to lose my brother," snapped George, the words tumbling out before he could even think them. George downed the remainder of his wine.

Amy frowned sympathetically.

"If everything happens for a reason, why did my brother have to die," his voice cracked and he found he had to shut his eyes and take a large breath before continuing, "why did he have to die when everything was bordering on perfect?"

"I don't know," said Amy quietly.

"So what's fate done for you?"

"Huh?"

His lips twitched slightly; very rarely did Amy appear confounded. "Fate – you obviously believe in that mumbo jumbo. Why?"

"Because it helped me find the way when I was lost and confused," she said, eyes staring deeply into his own. He couldn't for the life of him understand why.

"You, lost and confused? Never."

"Believe it," she smiled. "It was actually back in Hogwarts. I was getting picked on by this Slytherin who I'm sure is now spending her days cleaning owl droppings, and someone actually noticed, stopped whatever they were in the middle of, and stood up for me. I couldn't believe it, and she never picked on me again."

"That wasn't fate," said George.

"Then what was it?"

"A very decent person. It's a choice, what type of person someone chooses to be. To say people and situations have been scripted in a time before life takes the magic out of them."

"Or it makes their magic brighter by knowing that a higher force ensured every moment to happen in a specific way, to match two souls together forever," Amy disputed, licking her lip as their faces neared.

"Nothing lasts forever," whispered George, "everything and everyone dies." His lips pressed against hers. "But, my dear, you put up one hell of an argument."

"Ravenclaw," she reminded.

"How will I ever live without my Ravenclaw for two days?" George groaned into her neck.

"Three nights." She chuckled, mimicking him from earlier as George's weight pushed her back onto the sofa, leaning over her and growling into her skin. He wouldn't think about those three nights, not for now.

* * *

Twenty-six letters in the alphabet, an infinite quantity or words in the English language, and George's mind was blank after the second word.

And even the first word he was dubious over. Honestly, what man wrote 'Dear' to another bloke? He shook his head and crossed it out before remembering his wand, then vanished it with a wave, returning the parchment to its premature bareness. He inked his quill again and began writing.

_Alright, Ollie? How's life been so far? Hope all's good, not that I know because it's been months since I've heard let alone seen you. Great work, you deserve the best friend award, courtesy of Weasley Wizards Wheezes. _

A groan tore through his throat before he once again wiped out the words, and dropped his head to the counter.

"Still struggling to cope with the English language? You're not three anymore, George," came Bill's voice, forcing George's head up.

"You've been away for a while," George noted, allowing the oncoming smile to slip through as Bill disappeared to the back room, walking back out moments later donned in the WWW robes.

"I do have another job, you know. One that actually pays me," Bill said. "How've you been? Ron said you're working on a letter."

"Ron's gob is as big as his stomach," he murmured, to which Bill punched his shoulder. "I'm trying to write to Oliver, Katie, Lee and Alicia, see if they want to go out on the weekend."

"And that's difficult, is it? You're not getting graded, it doesn't have to be 'O' standard," Bill said, serving his first customer. The shop was next to empty. Then, as an afterthought, Bill added, "not that you'd care anyway."

"I just want it to be right, I don't want…"

"You don't want them to be any different towards you than they were before?" Bill said.

"Yeah," George nodded. "Exactly."

"Mate, they'll be fine, they're your friends. If they don't distinguish you and your own identity, then…"

He left his sentence unfinished, and George was thankful, already knowing the harsh truth. If they, his own friends, didn't see him for himself, how could they truly be his friends? He knew of only one who had tried and failed miserably. He didn't think of them often.

"I've got lots on my mind," George said. "I think that's distracting me from the letters. Louis hasn't been in all week." At Bill's expression he continued. "It wouldn't normally bother me, but it was his birthday the other day and his nan normally lets him come and buy whatever he wants."

"She probably decided on something else for a change," Bill suggested, but George shook his head in disagreement, "No, even so she would have come and said something."

"So what do you think?"

"It's just worrying me, what with all the missing kids reports."

It was a rushed thought he used as an excuse, when the real issue was his last few days with Amy, how he had spent the days gone and how he would spend the nights to come. He needed to make sure no temptation would drift into his mind and choke him in its claws. He needed to be strong on his own for once in his life.

However, the more he thought about it, he realised it wasn't rushed at all, for whenever he was in the shop he had expected Louis to run in and jump on the counter. As his birthday came and went George tried not to dwell on it, he had, after all, seen Louis not long before. Perhaps they had brought his present early and, as Bill mentioned, deviated from their usual routine and decided on something different. Yet, the more he thought of it, the less it sat well with him. But if Louis was missing surely his grandmother would have come to the shop and ask George if he had seen him?

"Anyway, I thought I owed you a visit. Or rather, I was forced. I guess over a week was too long."

Before George could question his brother the door burst open, the usually loud welcoming jingle almost a far off whisper at the squealing figure sprinting towards him.

"_Unca George!_" little Victoire laughed as George swung her around in the air.

"Hey, Vicky," he said, holding her close and taking her all in, her petite body, her angelic smell, the feel of her hair. "Hi."

"I missed you," she said, gently moving his hair away from his ear to whisper into it.

"I missed you too. Why didn't you make daddy come earlier so you could see me?" he asked, sending a glare to Bill.

"It wasn't me! It wasn't me!" she shook her head rapidly, eyes wide. "It was mama! Mama did it."

"Aw, was mama being mean?" George asked, noticing Fleur follow her daughter into the shop through his peripheral vision; he didn't dare look up yet.

"Mama made crepes for breakfast," Victoire informed him. Food was always a winner, and no one who made crepes as good as Fleur could be considered anything but wonderful.

"Did she now? Where are mine?"

She grinned, showing off her missing front tooth and patted her stomach, sticking her tongue out and then leaning away from George as he tried to grab it between his fingers. Through much fidgeting, Victoire managed to wiggle onto her feet. Little hands fisted and settled on her narrow hips and her smile was replaced by a deep glare far too similar to her mother's, much to George's horror. He had experienced the wrath of Fleur Delacour once before on her wedding, and he swore it had permanently damaged the mending hole on the side of his head where his ear once sat.

He gulped. "Vicky?"

"You're in big trouble, Unca George!"

"What did I do?" he asked, seeming to shrink before his tiny niece.

"Sunday dinner," she said, and George was momentarily worried she was bringing up the incident the last time he had been at the Burrow. To his relief, she mentioned nothing of it. "You didn't come! Nana Molly smacked my bottom for picking pea bogeys."

And despite an obviously frustrated Fleur, George Weasley laughed. He knew exactly what to put in his letters.

"That was not a very ladylike thing to do, now, was it?" George said smiling.

"But Moles was –"

"And you shouldn't call your cousin Moles," George added, hearing Fleur muttering in French.

"But she's Moles Weasel!" Victoire exclaimed.

"Ready for you lunch break, Bill?" George said, noticing the emptiness of the shop and wanting to get away from Victoire who was on the verge of exploding.

As they ambled down Diagon Alley to the usual café George noticed from the corner of his eye a peculiar looking shadowed figure examining daydream catchers from a stall. Their face was fixed on the object in their hands, but George could make out the shiftiness of their eyes, flying this way and that before settling on a family with three children sitting outside Florean Fortescue's.

George leaned in closer to Bill. "Watch out for your girls."

* * *

A final inhale, a squeeze, a long lingering kiss.

"Three nights."

Then the portkey took away the scaffold holding him steady; he wavered. The flat seemed quieter than he could remember, even more so in the stillness of their farewell, her presence being the barrier from the eerie silence. He wasn't complete, but she trusted him, felt him strong enough to stand on his own.

Looking from side to side, he saw nothing of interest and opted to go down to the shop to exercise his mind on useful merchandise. The Lava Lollies were nearly finished. The initial testing had presented the issue of constant smoke billowing out of orifices for a good six hours alongside teary red eyes and a swollen tongue. Two alterations later and it was almost ready, only the smoke gathered in the mouth when it was closed and shrilled like the Hogwarts Express.

Ink depicting the blueprint blurred on the parchment; he couldn't make out a word of the list of ingredients and their measurements, everything looking a foreign mess. George rubbed his eyes, and then waved his wand, turning on the Wireless. A slow jazzy tune filled the room, and he found himself able to read once again.

Pulling out a cauldron with the now cooled mixture for Lava Lollies he spooned some into a tray of mould, inserting a stick into the puddles before they cooled. The solution finished before he had filled in all of his moulds. A quick glance at his watch showed him that it was nearing eleven, and so he decided to tire himself out by working on another. Opening the potions cupboard he pulled out everything he needed, regarding the list only once before mentally storing the ingredients. Pushing aside a dusty hangover potion, he saw an enticing bottle of firewhiskey.

But no, he wasn't going to drink it, wasn't even going to _look_ at the bottle, he swore to himself, and slid the hangover potion back to conceal it.

As much as he tried to concentrate on the recipe and the earthy grooves escaping the radio his mind kept falling back to the hidden bottle of alcohol he had no doubt stashed during one of his drunken escapades. It suited the music, the slow burn, deep tones. He could easily fall into a trance, the fusion of two lulling him to sleep. It would be easy. He wouldn't be stupid, not when he was going to have dinner with his friends the next evening. He would be on top form – _had_ to be on top form.

He chanced a glance at Fred's desk where the prosthetic ear and its instructions sat.

Shaking his head to rid the seductive thoughts, he turned the volume up as the mellow harmonies eased into speedier rhythms.

He managed to finish the concoction some time later and left it to cool. Ignoring the left over ingredients on his work bench he jumped up the steps to the flat, ready to go to bed but found himself too awake and energised. George flicked on the lamps and lights, all of them, lighting his flat to look as if it was daytime. He gulped, checking to make sure no dark corner remained. Satisfied, he made his way to the kitchen and drank some milk straight from the bottle, feeling a slight chill from some trailing down his chin and neck.

The sofa would do for the night, he thought to himself, lying on his side and hugging a cushion to his stomach. No matter how much he yearned for sleep, his eyes wouldn't shut, staring blankly at the wall ahead of him.

A nudge in his head, like a stick poking into his skull, pushing harder and harder in its attempt to break through and plunge in. The dull prodding was soon replaced by a vicious burn, several, as more sticks attempted to penetrate his mind. George knew though, that the physical pain was not caused by a physical attack, and he had no way of stopping it. His eyes watered, still locked on the bare patch of wall. He couldn't even make himself blink.

When was the last time, the actual last time, George had thought of Fred during his daily activities? Of what Fred would be doing, how he would go about it, what his reaction to certain customers and their complaints would be? The last time he had instinctively thought of a snappy remark Fred would make about a girl? What Fred would say when Percy would come over with boxes of food and oil dripping from his fork halfway through a greasy takeaway?

He couldn't remember. The name of the stabbing in his head flashed to consciousness: guilt.

Guilt for not having remembered Fred when he should have been. For not honouring him in death when he so took him for granted in life. Fred deserved to live in memories, particularly George's.

Only, it seemed that Amy had pushed him out, swarming in on George. She was his everything when none other than Fred had been before. And he hated it.

"No," he groaned out, finally squeezing his eyes shut as he burrowed his head into the nook of the sofa. "Shut up."

Except his thoughts were not his own now. He was infested. His vulnerability had opened him to an attack from his subconscious that he had not even known was harbouring such resentment to himself. His safety turned out not to be so safe at all; the icy cavern had not melted away to the grassy meadow after all, had not even been slightly warmed by the golden sun. It was all a mirage, a phantasm of the life he so desired but was not capable of holding.

"Yes I can," he moaned. "It is my life, shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!"

His fists punched the sofa, attempting to rid the mockery singing aloud in his ears and consuming his thoughts. It was loud – _so loud and scathing – _and so much like his own, chanting evil words that had George screaming to ignore.

"_Shut up! Shut. The fuck. UP!_" he yelled, jumping up from the sofa to pace. His hands were pulling wildly at his hair.

_You forgot Fred…You're living Fred's life…You don't deserve this…You don't deserve Amy…Your family cannot stand the sight of you…Your mother hates you…Wishes you were the one who died…Fred would be a good son…He wouldn't fight his mother…Wouldn't need to drink like a pussy…_

"I don't! I don't need to! I don't, I don't, I don't._"_

_Yes you do, _it hissed, echoing through the room. _You do because you're weak. You've been alone for a few hours and you're going insane. You're mad, crazy, and insane. You're pathetic. Fred would be ashamed – Fred is ashamed, turning in his grave right now. What a mess you've become._

"_FUCK OFF!_" he screamed, his arms flying out. He noticed a wetness on his face and realised he had been crying.

"George?"

"NO! Leave me, shut the fuck up!"

"George? George!"

He struggled against the pressure forcing him to still, and when his vision cleared saw arms around his middle. The voice identical to his own quietened down as soft whispers sounded in his ear, the only indication of it not being his head was the warm breath.

Slowly, he stopped fighting against the arms and felt his body droop as the adrenaline seeped out of him.

"You're alright, George, you're fine. Absolutely great, you fought it, you won. You should be so proud, Fred's proud of you, I know he is, everyone is. Fred thinks you're doing great."

George had never been so glad to have Percy back in his life.


	8. Moving Forward

**Wow, it's been almost a year since an update for this story! Sorry a million times. I'll try and work on this more. Thank you all for waiting so patiently, I hope this chapter makes it worth it.**

**Last chapter: Amy left for her weekend training and George had a breakdown afterwards where Percy found him. **

* * *

Mending Broken Souls: Moving Forward

* * *

_Oliver Wood, where the bloody hell have you been hiding?_

_It's been too long mate, how've you been? I saw in the paper you're on break from Quidditch right now. How about we go out for dinner? That's not me asking you out on a date, by the way, sorry to crush your heart. Katie, Lee and Alicia, too, what do you say, you up for it? We all really do need to meet up again. Good old reunion! Life isn't the same. I'm sure you could do with some handsome redhead views._

_All the best, George._

_PS. I can still kick your arse in darts._

He had memorised the similar letters he had sent out to his friends and repeated it in his head as he sat in a small restaurant in Diagon Alley. Thanks to Percy he had managed to send them all out before his doubts invaded his mind and stored them in a drawer never to be seen again. After his breakdown Percy had encouraged him to meet up with his old friends again, and as much as he hated to admit it, had also helped him write down what to say. Like a decent brother he did not mention it to anyone else, proven by Ron's lack of interrogation earlier in the day.

Watching the owls fly away with the letters left him both anxious and relieved. After receiving accepting responses, it was all excitement.

Percy had even stayed the night to keep him company. They played wizard's chess for hours before slumping in their respective seats. Percy had left before George had even woken, the only evidence of his presence being a paper bag with a pain au chocolat inside.

His knee bounced, eyes wandered, fingers twitched. The familiar heat of excitement bubbled in his stomach, buzzing his senses.

Frizzy blonde hair entered the door first. George leapt out of his seat, his generous height catching her twinkling eyes.

"Your beard!" Alicia squealed, gripping George in a hug.

"It's a day's worth of stubble. But thanks for the confidence boost."

"Oh, lemme have a look at you again." Hands stayed fixed on his shoulders as she parted from him, eyeing him head to toe. She clucked her tongue. "Knew it. I knew this would happen the second you flew away from Hogwarts."

"What?"

"That you'd stop playing Quidditch and all that pie and mash would settle in your stomach. Look at the pudge! It's so soft now."

He swatted her hands away. "You're just jealous because you couldn't keep your abs and maintain a lean physique like me. But this, on the other hand –" he yanked on a lock of hair "– hasn't changed a bit."

"Shit, I didn't have time to straighten it before I left. Didn't want to be late, you know. Let's sit."

They both took their seats. Alicia flicked her wand with a soft incantation towards her hair. Before his eyes the blonde frizz smoothed out into perfect straight strands.

"That's better."

"Katie's the late one," George remarked, taking a sip of water as Alicia perused the drinks menu.

"Oh, don't remind me. The amount of times she made me wait for her when she had detention so we would be late to Quidditch practice together," Alicia rolled her eyes. "She claimed Oliver would look over several people arriving late, but if there was one he'd corner them until his lungs exploded."

"Somehow that was never the case for us."

"Hmm." Alicia flagged down a waiter and ordered her drink. "So, what's with the facial hair? Most guys can't wait to grow it just so they can proudly say they shave."

"I quite like the gruff look. Masculine."

"But you said it was only a day old. Does it irritate you when you sleep or something? Shave just before bed?"

George shrugged. "I have my moments."

"Your hair looks good though. At least you've learnt not to take a weed hacker to it," she smirked.

"Wouldn't my mum just love to hear someone say that about her hair cutting skills?"

"How is your mum doing these days?"

He nodded. "Yeah, yeah, she's alright. Good. Busy with the babies and whatnot."

"That's good to hear. Bet it's a madhouse at the Burrow when everyone's around. All those babies and kids. Bless."

"Not much different from the old days, I suppose."

"Merlin, babies make me broody. Couldn't imagine me having one though."

"Who would trust you with your own?"

Alicia's drink arrived, escorted by a familiar grin.

"Someone order a Djinn and Tonic?"

"Always knew you'd end up serving someone in life," Alicia winked, taking her smoking drink. She set it down and stood to embrace Lee. "How did you end up with my drink?"

"Saw you order it as soon as I came in, intercepted the waiter, the usual. You've fixed your hair."

"You haven't."

Lee's dreadlocks, George noticed, were longer, tied with elastic at the nape of his neck. It was longer than George's hair.

"You've got stubble, too! What is up with you guys?"

"George!" Lee exclaimed, clapping the man's hand and brought their shoulders together for a brief hug.

"Alright, mate. Been a while," George smiled, finding comfort in the presence of his two friends. It was as if nothing had changed but the hair.

"Wow, you finally managed to grow a beard, huh? I'm still working on mine," Lee said, rubbing at the soft hairs on his chin.

"Irritable?"

"No, just takes a while to grow. You should have seen it a year or so back, great big patches of skin bare. Looked like a five year old yanked the hairs out."

"Now we just have to wait for Oliver and see if he's turned to the dark side or not," Alicia groused, sipping her drink.

"Nah, he'll be smooth shaven. Baby face," Lee said.

"What have you girls got against facial hair anyway?"

"Who else doesn't like it? I bet it's Hermione. And your mum, probably."

"Saw an article in the Prophet about her the other day – Hermione, that is. Seems to be doing well at work," Lee commented.

"Yeah, everyone's swell."

"And the shop? I can't believe how long it's been since I've visited. Merlin, I remember when that was all that was on our minds," Lee sighed.

"I popped around last week," Alicia interjected. "It looks marvellous, George! I would have said hello but you weren't there so I told Verity not to bother. Wouldn't have been much of a surprise then, would it?"

"Appreciate it."

"Another water, George?" Lee asked, half off his seat. At George's nod he departed to the bar to get the drinks.

"I love this already," Alicia said with a giddy smile. "No worrying about work, or grades, or professors, or life. Just friends again."

Minus one, George thought.

"Yeah."

"I've been wanting to meet up for ages. Just…never found the courage to ask everyone."

George frowned just as Lee arrived. "That's stupid. Why not?"

"I guess…" she shifted in her seat, keeping her eyes down on her emptying glass where her manicured nails were tapping a rhythm. "I assumed everyone was busy getting on with their lives. I didn't want to intrude or look…desperate. Like I couldn't move on or was struggling."

"Ali, why would we think of you like that? It's just a friendly get together," Lee asked.

But she was shaking her head before he even began speaking, disregarding the conversation. "Forget it, it's nothing. I'm just overwhelmed at seeing you again. Look who's just come in. Hi guys!"

"We're not late, are we? Looks like the party's already started."

His Scottish drawl was gruffer than in their Hogwarts days, but it was definitely the noticeable Oliver Wood accent. What was more surprising was the brunette beauty on his arm.

"Katie! Wow. Just wow."

They repeated their introductions once again with their hugs and manly shoulder bumps and handshakes. Once seated with drinks and their meal ordered the conversation picked up.

"So," Alicia started, pink cheeked from the sharp alcohol and excitement. "You two. I want details. When, where and how?"

Katie and Oliver shared a look, the latter rubbing the back of his neck.

"It's only been a few months," Katie said. "I was a PR for one of the sponsors at his game in New Zealand. We bumped into each other, had a few drinks, and that's about it."

Alicia scoffed. "You suck at details."

"I'm sparing Ollie the embarrassment. You know I'm going to spill everything when we have a toilet break."

Oliver let his head drop back with a groan. George and Lee shared a look; _Ollie?_

"What if we want to know as well?" said Lee, sitting up and looking highly affronted. He pointed to the girls. "Sexism. I feel oppressed."

"Do you really want to know about Ollie in the sack?"

Instantaneously their faces scrunched up and Oliver tried hiding behind his hands, crimson crawling up his neck and spreading across his cheeks.

"We'll pass, thanks," George gulped his water.

"Oi, what's with the clean drinking?" Oliver asked, visibly glad for a change in conversation.

"There's nothing wrong with that," Lee said.

"Just not into the alcohol anymore, mate."

"Pfft, you? Not into alcohol? Next you'll be telling us you're tired of pranking people," Katie giggled.

"Ignore them, George. I think it's very responsible. Especially considering that you have work early in the morning," Alicia said.

The food arrived, then, steaming plates of steaks and burgers and garlic bread and salads.

_Responsible, _George internally scoffed. In what world did that word ever appeal, or relate, to him?

"Not even a little one?" Oliver persisted. "For the special occasion."

George finished chewing the slice of garlic bread. The curse of the garlic breath had no space in his mind, it wasn't as if he needed minty breath for the night. It was his time for _sensible _indulgence.

"How's the job coming along for you, Lee?" Alicia asked, louder than usual. Whether it was from the building tension or her alcohol George didn't care, but it was worthy of a Weasley smooch.

"It is fantastic," he grinned. "Doesn't even feel like a job half the time."

"Lucky you. I'd love to get paid for talking."

"You do, Leesh," Katie said.

"Pfft, paid for getting secretaries telling me to sod off. Really worth the shitty pay," she rolled her eyes and stabbed her diced chicken harshly.

"Well, what happened to your extra training years?" Oliver asked. "I thought you were getting more qualifications to work in St. Mungo's?"

"That is right," Katie said, waving her fork in the air. "You did their three year course."

Alicia shrugged while keeping her eyes on her food. "It was hard. I barely passed and Mungo's kept hiring those better qualified. I didn't do any placement or volunteer work which put me behind the other candidates."

"That's bullshit," Lee said. "You worked so hard, you didn't have time to take on any additional work. You needed the job at Malkin's to help your dad."

"It was probably also the gap year I took after the Battle…made me rusty, you know." She looked up smiling. "Besides, I've been thinking about giving muggle work a go."

Oliver's eyes widened. "But you'll need more training for that. And muggle qualifications. That'll take years, most likely."

Katie was shaking her head. "No, she won't, not entirely. She can ask McGonagall to convert her N.E. That'll sort out the basics of healthcare knowledge. She'll just need to be taught the muggle practices then."

"That's great, Leesh," George grinned. "When did you plan on applying?"

"Oh. I'm not sure yet. It's still only an idea."

"I think you should go for it," said Lee.

"Definitely! I could even help you study a bit," Katie offered.

"Would you really?"

"Sure. And my mum can help. She's a nurse. I can get her to put in a good word for you at her hospital, if you like."

"Oh, Kates!"

"Seriously, Leesh?" came Oliver's voice. "You really going to throw away all your hard work to go muggle? Look, how's about you work as a medic for the team, eh? Ralph's retired in about a week so there'll be a free spot."

"Thanks for the offer, Oll, but I'd really much rather stay closer to home. I can't afford to be flying all around the world when I'm needed at home."

George listened in to the pros and cons of working in muggle healthcare. Katie, with her mother's experience working over two decades in the NHS, knew a lot about it and slapped away Oliver's gesticulating hands when he tried to get a word in.

He was ashamed that he did not know of Alicia's struggle in the past few years. In school he knew she wanted to become a Healer and help people. She had worked hard and graduated flawlessly, not with perfect straight O's but good enough.

And what was all this about her helping her father?

"But you were grumbling the other day over how rubbish your mum's wage is," Oliver said, pulling Katie back into her seat from her upright position.

"That's only because she decided to cut down her hours and work part time so she can take up knitting or some other shit. She mentioned babies the other day, actually."

Oliver paled, his skin drained of all blood and colour. Katie took no notice, sitting straight again and discussing the different courses Alicia could take.

An elbow jabbed George in the ribs, and he leaned closer to Lee.

"Popped down the Ministry the other day to send in some papers for a new flat. Ran into Harry while I was there. He seemed a bit worried, mate, everything alright?"

"Yeah, great, everything's great. Just…had a bit of a scene with mum a while back. I'm going to sort it out though."

Lee nodded, his gaze unwavering. He opened his mouth, a single syllable escaping before being spoken over by Katie.

"How's Angelina doing?"

He chewed his bite slowly and sipped his water. The question had been asked in general, but George could feel her eyes like a laser whenever they settled on him.

"It's been a while since I've heard from her," Alicia said, swaying ever so slightly in her seat. "She's well. How 'bout you, Ollie? Bet you see her often enough."

"I do. She's doing very well in Quidditch." Oliver's eyes passed over the group, eyeing George closely. He made no move. "Heard of a rumoured engagement about to happen."

"A friend of yours?" Lee asked, hailing a waiter to clear the table.

"Something like that," he answered. "Wanted to know what I thought about it."

"…And?"

Oliver shrugged. "Told him to go for it if it's what he really wanted."

"So how long have they been together?"

"You should find out for yourself, Alicia."

The blonde visibly flinched and cast her eyes down at the accusatory words. Alicia was always an emotional drunk. It was only a matter of time before she burst out into tears.

"And you, George?"

"Fuck her." The words spilled out before he even registered the question being asked. It was as if all the alcohol surrounding him had intoxicated him with simply its scent and presence, weaving around in his mind and blood until it took over his senses.

No. He was better than that. He would beat it.

"Excuse me?" Katie exclaimed, startled. "How dare you."

"I didn't mean that," George stumbled. It seemed he was always stumbling. "I'm over it."

"And, what, she isn't?"

"She's not said anything."

"Why would she?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Fuck you, George Weasley," Katie spat. "Mightier than thou, the best of the best, always winning in life and better than the rest."

"Katie…" Oliver called gently, a hand resting on her elbow. George had not taken notice of how much alcohol she had drunk. But maybe, for once, it was not the drink. Katie always was a spitfire. He just fuelled the flames and was about to get burned.

"No! I've had it up to here with you bloody twats. Always thinking you're better than everyone else, and because of what? Because you don't listen to authority? Because you think you can do whatever the fuck you want? Bend the rules to your liking? Who gave you the right? You've always thought we were wrong and made shitty choices. Well I wasn't the one to almost drink myself to death, or push someone else close to wanting to die!"

"Twat."

"Excuse me?" she shrieked once again.

"It's twat, singular. You said twats. Fred's _dead._ Get used to it."

George stood up, removed his wallet from his pocket and dropped his share of the meal on the table.

"Sorry for the invite, guys. Looks like I actually made a bad decision. Take care."

Grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair, he left, nodding one final goodbye to the table. Katie, he saw in a glimpse, looked horrified as he left. An ache in his chest was all he felt. No satisfaction, no happiness.

Fred would have made it a good evening. He would have known what to say to cheer everyone up, make them feel welcomed and strong. George was just a piece of shit. The leftover.

"George."

He heard the footsteps before the voice, followed by a firm hand on his shoulder stopping him.

"How about we carry on at your place? I don't know about you but I'm not done with tonight."

He cracked a smile at his best friend. "Fine with me, Lee."

They began strolling through the streets, making their way through Diagon Alley in the direction of the shop. Few people noticed George and called a quick hello.

"So what's new with you? I know you're hiding something."

George chuckled, thinking of what he could possibly start with as Lee fiddled in his pockets until smoke drifted before him.

"When did you go muggle?" he asked Lee, watching as the shorter man dangled a cigarette from his lips.

"Girlfriend got me into it. Well, her brother, actually," Lee grinned.

"Girlfriend? How long?"

"Three months."

George whistled. "Damn, Lee, I swear that's the longest you've had a girl!"

"Yeah. She's great. Wonderful," he smiled into the night as he blew out smoke from slightly parted full lips, his eyes lighting up in a way George had never seen.

"When will I have the honour of meeting her?"

"Next weekend good for you?"

"Let me check my schedule." From his jacket George pulled out a small notebook which expanded as soon as it sat in the palm of his hand. From the binding a pair of glasses flew up onto his face, the bright green spiralling frames making his eyes bulge. He flicked through the pages, each with a roaring noise or flying paper creatures or coloured gas.

Lee laughed. "Tosser."

George pocketed his diary, the glasses disappearing with the snap. "Yep, I'm good for then."

"What d'you call that then?"

"Dazzling Diaries. Started off mainly for adults but then Vicky really wanted one so got the idea of various editions. She has the Princess Diary, Teddy the Pranksters Diary. And it only opens for the one who owns it."

"How does that work then?" Lee asked, watching George as he once again brought out the diary and passed it over to him.

"Open it."

"What's going to happen to me?"

"Just open it."

Lee lifted the average brown leather cover. Immediately, the page split into two, creating a row of razor sharp teeth that jutted out of the book and towards Lee. The black abyss between roared into his face, blowing air around him until he had to close his eyes from fear of tearing up. His ears ached from the shrill noise until his hands finally shut the book, silencing the street.

"Fuck," he exhaled.

"Well?" George asked, taking the diary from Lee's frozen hands.

"Still as brilliant as always."

"Cheers, mate."

"How did you manage that?"

"Whenever someone buys it we have to scan their fingerprint into the diary's memory, so whenever it doesn't recognise who's opening it, it goes into defence mode and tries scaring them off without letting them read what's inside."

"Genius."

"Why, thank you." George bowed, flicking his hair out of his face.

"A nightmare for paranoid chicks, though."

"And blokes."

"And blokes. I need one of them."

"As long as you don't want the Princess or Lovers edition you can have one with and still maintain our friendship."

"Lovers edition?"

"Don't ask."

Diagon Alley began filling up with the nightly strays and tramps the further the two friends walked into the wide street where alleys lined both sides. Knockturn Alley was just towards the left, here even more shifty characters loomed. Their hands found their way into their pockets, grasping the handle of their wands firmly.

"So…" Lee started.

"I have a girlfriend."

He nodded. "How long?"

"Couple of weeks."

"You happy?"

"…yes."

They looked to each other and shared a grin. Lee clapped him on the shoulder. "Happy for you, mate. Go on. Tell me all about her."

"She's an Auror."

His eyes widened. "Ron and Harry know?"

George shook his head. "I've not told anyone yet."

"Worried about you mum?"

He thought it over for a second. "She won't like her. Too…independent."

"As if that's a bad thing," Lee snorted.

"Her and mum will clash, I just know it."

"As long as you're happy."

It had been so long since he had felt raw happiness he had forgotten what it was like. Surely it was more than _this._ George had always taken what was good for him and stretched it until it blanketed him. Pure elation was fireworks and warm silences and golden flakes raining down on even the greyest of days. It was finding the rainbow in absolute darkness. Wasn't that what they were during the war? Had he shared it out so much that it left him, escaping into more habitable hosts?

Lee shook his foot as a grey cat nuzzled against his shin.

"Sod off," he grumbled, speeding up at the hiss it gave.

"Nightmare, isn't it?" George said. These people could have been him, he thought. His family were fortunate enough to have had just enough financial stability and love to stick together. How many times were they so close to being forced out onto the streets? His chest tightened and throbbed at the thought of his parents sitting in dark corners of the streets, away from the jeers and spits. His little sister susceptible to desperate hands. His brothers fighting for comfort. If only he had more happiness to share out, but he had just learned to accept comforting embraces and deep kisses that meant so much more than release.

"Horrible. All these people with no place to go. And what's with all the bloody cats?"

"Probably something in the sewers attracting them. The Ministry really needs to get someone to check it out. Who knows how many rats could be down there."

Lee shivered at the suggestion. He dropped his cigarette and stomped it out. "Hate rats."

"And cats," added George.

"All animals. Incoming," Lee gestured to George's other side where a small cat was lunging across the road towards them.

"Oh, hell."

The tiny feline stopped at George's feet and released a loud elongated meow. Lee jumped back as the cat stretched up George's legs, locking its claws into the material of his trousers barely missing his skin.

"What do you want?" George grumbled at the cat, shaking his leg. The cat persisted, jumping up and circling his feet for his attention.

"Friend?" Lee asked, shuffling away whenever the cat got too close to him.

"Vermin."

"Seems to like you."

"Go away. Where's your…lady…?"

Crazy dark hair flashed inside his head with wild frightened eyes and bruised and bloody skin.

"Where's your lady?" George asked, kneeling down. The cat nipped his fingers lightly. Before turning and walking back across the road.

"George?" Lee called.

"I have to go," George said, following the cat.

"Wait, where are y – that's Knockturn Alley."

"I have to – I have to go. I need to go."

"Wait, I'm coming too!"

George did not slow his pace, having Lee run in order to catch up. The cat stopped at the corner and turned, watching them as they followed before continuing.

"Mind telling me why we're following a cat?" Lee asked breathlessly as he fell into place next to George.

"A woman was getting molested the other day and she left before I could get her any proper help."

"Damn. Her cat?"

George nodded once. They entered Knockturn Alley and found themselves having to weave through crowds of people. It was hard keeping track of the little cat in the darkness with so many people blocking their vision. Several times the cat ran back to them, nipping their ankles to catch their attention.

The crowd fizzled out the further into Knockturn Alley they ventured. Both men were sweating by the time they saw the cat sitting before a figure, scrabbling to tie a knot in her cloak.

"Is that…"

Lee's question was left unasked as George strode towards the woman. His hands fell on her shoulders.

"Hey."

Her eyes widened, flicking momentarily to Lee before settling on George. Under his hands she tried pulling away. He tightened his grip and bowed down.

"Hey, hey, it's alright. Just stay calm, I won't hurt you."

Within seconds her ragged breathing slowed down.

"Are you okay?" he asked. A brush against his leg notified him to the cat nuzzling against her between them. Her eyes narrowed in a glare down at the cat before lightly shoving it away with her foot.

"Have you eaten?" Lee asked. "Oh, I'm Lee, this geezer's best friend."

"Your cat brought us here…" George explained, trailing off as he realised how silly it sounded out loud. "Is something the matter?"

She avoided his gaze, peeking out from the corner of her eye. Following her line of vision, George saw a man leaning against a nearby wall. What unsettled him was that he was looking right at them.

"Someone's watching," George murmured to Lee.

"What's your name?" Lee asked.

Still no response. Frustrated, George was running out of reasons to stay. He did not even know why he rushed to see her. It was obvious she was well after the incident, as well as she always seemed to be, that was. He could leave now and not feel an ounce of guilt for walking away. Just then her stomach rumbled and George almost grinned in satisfaction.

"Come on, let's get something in your stomach."

Pulling her by the elbow, George found that she offered no resistance and followed obediently. They walked silently until they approached the crowds once more. George was about to tighten his hold to make sure she could not squirm out of his grasp when she curled into his arm, her left hand fisted tightly against him.

"Arsehole," Lee muttered, scowling at a passing green haired man who winked at her.

"What?" George asked.

"Gave her sickles," Lee answered. "For her services."

A frown graced George's features as he processed Lee's words.

Upon leaving Knockturn Alley George took them to the nearest place where they could get some takeout food, a little pizzeria down the street from his flat.

A jingle signalled their entry, the scent of yeast and grease greeting them.

"No animals," said the man behind the counter as he chewed gum.

"Go on, shoo, wait outside," George waved off the cat, eliciting a hiss that made him jump back. "Well, shit."

His dilemma was solved as the woman picked up the cat and physically dropped it outside, shutting the door before it could run back in.

"What can I get for you?" the man asked, eyeing up the woman's odd appearance.

"What do you like?" George asked her. She blinked up at him. "Margherita will do. Large."

"Ten minutes."

"Thanks. Go sit down."

Lee stopped George before he could settle down.

"I'd love to wait for you guys but I need to be going now, breakfast date in the morning with the lady. Let me know how everyone goes?"

"Sure. Go get your beauty sleep."

"Thanks for tonight, George. It was great seeing you again, really," Lee smiled, patting George's arm before exiting the small restaurant and apparating away.

George sat with a huff. She was observing the walls, chipped marbled tiles with diamond shaped mirrors in a row. He noticed she avoided looking at herself. Their eyes met in the mirror. She looked away.

"So, what do you do? That guy gave you money."

He no longer expected a verbal answer after all his wasted questions, rather, he watched her reactions in her body language, her fidgety hands and shifty eyes. Her generous hair hid most of her face but he managed a glimpse of a slight flush on her cheeks.

Leaning in closer to her, he whispered: "Why?"

Eyes were said to be the windows to the soul, something George had never quite grasped, finding that emotion was easily conveyed through the entire body. He never knew the difference between happy eyes or sad eyes unless the rest of the face formed the perfect expression. But staring into her brown eyes he was blown away by the pained shine in them. So close was he that he could see himself in them, a gem of light in a dismal existence.

This girl, vulnerable and broken in the streets of Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley. She could easily have been the same age as Ginny. And yet, she had to resort to selling her body for scraps of money. The state of her tattered clothes was enough of an indicator that she did not buy decent clothes very often. Legs bared under the short hem of her cloak bordering on indecent even in the wizarding nightlife. Even through the baggy cloak she looked far too slim to be healthy. The bones in her hands jutted out, breasts flattened beneath protruding collar bones, her wrist small enough to snap with a single touch.

An ache, so sharp and deep in his stomach. He had to do something, something more than buy her a cheesy pizza.

The pizza was out of the oven and in a box in a matter of minutes. George asked her whether she would prefer eating at one of the small tables inside or in the local park. Her eyes shifting out the window was enough of an answer.

Holding the box with one hand, he wrapped his arm around her as soon as they left. She dropped to the floor, looking for the cat behind some bins.

A yowl from an adjacent alley bled into the calm night. George hardly had time to turn his head in the direction of the cry before she sprinted ahead, almost tripping over her own feet.

"Oi! Wait!"

The cat leaped out, its tail erected and fluffed dangerously. Its green eyes were feral in the moonlight, and a spot of black could be seen painting its light fur. A garbled noise escaped the girl's throat.

"Fucking pest…"

A blur of black. George's wand was out as he realised the girl running to the man that walked out of the alley. Hands clawed up towards his face, her nails digging into the flesh until it oozed blood. Her legs kicked out at him. The man's hand up above his head held a dagger. He yelled out, one arm shoving her away as he elbowed her gut. Bringing down the hand with the knife, he thrust it towards her, intercepted by a blinding light that slapped the blade out of his hand. Another spell and he was knocked back unconscious before he even hit the wall.

"You okay?"

She was breathing too fast, spluttering and wheezing through the tears. He looked over her everywhere, pulling apart her robe and finding a long gash against her ribs.

"Fuck."

The blade must have slashed her when she first lunged on the man. He could not tell how deep the wound was over her shirt, but it was getting wet too fast.

"Okay, okay, I need to get you some help."

She shrieked louder, hysterical and slapping him away.

"Not to Mungo's! I won't take you there. Just come on, stay still."

She stumbled backwards, bowing over her knees as she threw up. George winced at the sound and scent, turning his head to the side as she emptied her gut. Inhaling deeply, she found the cat lying on its side. Gently, she held it in her hands, presenting it to George. Her mouth opened, sobs pulsing from her body.

_Please._

He read her lips and in a matter of seconds held her close to him. He could not think about how this would affect her in her condition, but he had only one place in mind, and with a twist they were gone.


	9. One Step Closer

Mending Broken Souls: One Step Closer

* * *

Lights shone through the many windows in his childhood home, illuminating the path he stumbled down. Both hands were full of the girl's almost dead weight as she drooped and swayed. George could faintly make out her quick breathing, her skin chilling under his fingers.

"We're here, don't worry now, you'll both be fine," he groaned, pulling her up and into his arms when she almost toppled over the fence and into the chicken feed. His legs were able to move faster with her figure no longer dragging him sideways, and he found himself calling for help when her eyes rolled and body convulsed.

"George? Is that you?"

The front door slammed opened followed by several people spilling out.

"George!"

"Dad, help! She's hurt."

Hermione was the first to reach him, Ron right on her heels, almost sliding away from his speed and momentum until his feet dug into the dirt. He looked the girl over, parting her hair from her face as best as he could while Arthur stood over him, wand aloft, allowing Ron necessary light.

"Her ribs," George gasped out, watching as Ron moved her clothes aside. They all sucked in a breath.

"Take her inside. Molly!" Arthur cried out. "Come on."

Hermione gently eased the cat out of the girls grip, murmuring soft words as she tightened her hold and her eyelids flickered. Once safe in her arms George took off in a run, bursting into the house.

"On the couch," Molly ordered.

The coffee table was covered with bandages and potions and a bowl of water. Placing her down as gently as possible, George was shoved aside by his mother as she began looking over her injuries and firing off questions.

"What happened to her?"

"S-she got into it with some man. He sliced her by the ribs."

Mindful of the males in the room, Hermione and Molly blocked the bloody and bare torso from their sights as Molly unwrapped the cloak.

From his position behind Hermione's shoulder, George couldn't see beyond the girl's thin neck. Her shrivelled and tight skin captivated him, blue veins jutting out. Lips too full for a small face were parted, exhaling soft wheezes.

"George!" Molly's voice shook him from the corpse. "I asked how long ago?"

"Less than ten minutes. I came here straight away."

She nodded, somewhat relieved. Kneeling down, Molly wet a small towel and began wiping away the dirt and blood. Submerging it back into the water, the deep red curled, swirling down and out until the bowl was full of pink. She pulled out her wand from its place in the knot that was her hair, dabbing some alcohol onto the wound before sealing it.

George watched his mother work, her fingers expertly pushing down in one place and smoothing down another. Her eyes focused on the wound and the girls reactions. There had been no hesitation in his mother helping – in any of his family offering their aid. As soon as they realised a person was in distress they jumped in to help in any way that they could. Hermione offering comfort, Ron observing the injuries, Arthur keeping everyone calm and Molly doing the dirty work. George knew he had his own role in following his gut instinct and finding the mysterious girl that always seemed to crop up wherever he was. She was always there in the corner of his eye and the shadows of the streets, blending in but her presence burning against George's nerves. He wondered how she did it.

In a matter of minutes Molly was done bandaging the girl's torso and pouring some blood-replenishing potion into her mouth. An old large t-shirt that Ron had brought from somewhere upstairs drowned her slim frame, paired with flimsy pyjama pants and odd socks. If it had been a less dire situation George would have quipped that the girl fit right into the family on lazy Sunday mornings.

"She should sleep through the night," Molly said as she stood up slowly, wincing as she rubbed her knees.

"Cup of tea, George?" Arthur asked. "I assume you'll stay the night, just to keep an eye on her."

He was nodding before he even registered what was said.

"She'll be alright," Molly sighed.

"The cat?"

As if on cue, Hermione gasped as her gaze fell upon the blood matting the grey fur of the cat. Shoving it into Ron's arms, ignoring his yelp of distress, she divided the fur and healed the wound with equal dexterity as Molly.

"Poor things," his sister-in-law murmured, stroking the feline under the chin before taking it once more.

"What happened?" Ron asked.

"Let's all go and discuss this over a cuppa. We don't want to disturb the girl," Arthur said, urging his kids to the kitchen behind Molly.

The cat wriggled out of Hermione's arms and jumped up onto the couch with the girl. Instead of cuddling up beside her, it pawed her stomach and laid down atop her, nuzzling its head under her hand.

In the kitchen steaming mugs were already set out as the Weasley's took their seats.

"Now, George, who is this girl?" Arthur asked.

"I don't know," he answered.

"What? You must have some clue," said Ron, frowning.

George shrugged. "I've seen her around Diagon Alley before but I personally don't know her. She was being attacked so I stepped in. She was adamant in not going to St. Mungo's so I thought of the first place I knew that would help get her healed."

A small, proud smile graced Molly's lips, easing the tension in her face. She leaned over and patted his hand. "You're a good boy, George."

He offered a quirk of the lip in response. There was still a wall erected between him and his mother, one he was desperate to knock down but had no way of knowing where to start or how. Years had passed with them ignoring the wall and simply talking over and around it, each time growing more and more frustrated. The enormous division had become such a nuisance that George felt as if he'd lost his mother and had resorted to forging a mediocre shell of what his recent memories could remember.

Watching her tonight so selflessly helping another and ignoring the divide between them had helped to brighten up her image somewhat. It wasn't enough. George wanted his mother back.

"I learnt from the best," he said, squeezing her fingers.

"In spite of the circumstances, it's good to see you again, George," Arthur said.

"I'm…glad. To be here."

"We'd love to stay, really, but we have business in the morning." Hermione levitated her and Ron's mugs to the sink. She moved around the table to hug both Molly and Arthur before approaching George. "You're an arse most of the time, but you have a remarkably wonderful side that never ceases to amaze me."

"I'm pretty sure my whole arse is wonderful and not just a side of it," George smirked.

"How would you know?" Ron asked as he clapped his brother's shoulder, brows furrowing.

"Seriously, Ron?" Hermione groaned before George could respond. "Uh, just – come on. Thanks for having us for dinner, again. We'll see you tomorrow for lunch."

"It's not a problem dear," Molly said, escorting them out of the kitchen.

"And tell Charlie next time he expects a welcoming home party to bloody get back in time," George heard Ron call from outside.

"Oh, shut up, Ron," Molly said, closing the door once she saw that they had both safely apparated away.

The house was quiet with only the noise of the sponge in the sink scrubbing away disturbing the night. Arthur returned downstairs in his pyjamas and a book, his glasses dangerously low on his nose.

"I'm going to wait inside for Charlie, dear," he said to his wife, pecking her cheek once she removed her apron.

"I'll be with you in a bit. George, you've had a taxing day, go on off to bed. We'll wake you when she does," Molly said.

George nodded, only just noticing the heavy weight of his eyelids.

* * *

He was not sure what it was that would not let him succumb to slumber. Perhaps it was the adrenaline vaguely thumping inside of him, or the familiar scent of home that had him imagining whispers of devious plans and sugary treats when he closed his eyes. It was odd being back in his old room in the house he had grown up in. But lying there alone was unsettling with no soft snores to reassure him.

The roof was always a blissful escape. It was a dangerous climb out from his window but his body had remembered all the grooves and cracks within the structure of the building that he could have done it asleep. The cool air was refreshing, jasmine, iris and lavender filling up his nostrils with an underlying hint of salt from the nearby lake. Drowning in nature had always eased his mind, the regression into simpler times obscuring the worries and stresses of the present.

His room had changed, just as he had demanded his parents when he had moved out a few years ago. There was a single bed there now, no longer two. A simple wooden wardrobe on the opposite side of the room and a garishly patterned rug. At first glance it was a stranger's room, impersonal and dull.

But like many of the remnants of the war it had scars.

Behind the wardrobe was a large scorch mark etched into the veins of the wall. Under the rug a stain that George could recall being so discoloured that it resembled their own unique hallucinogenic rainbow. Etchings remained by the door of countless height markings over the years. Everywhere he looked was a poor attempt at the disguising of his and Fred's childhood. He wasn't sure, but the scars of the room almost seemed to stretch towards him in the darkness, the shadows crawling over his body.

"You can't see this stars in London."

The warmth of the body beside him was a welcome to the chill in his thin clothes and from his damp sweat.

"London has no time for stars," he said.

"Home makes time for its family," she said.

"How did you get up here?" George said, as if only registering how his mother had snuck up on him.

"How do you think? A mother has eyes on the back of her head and ears in every room. If I was so inclined to prevent you from coming up here all these years I would have done it," she said.

"It's a long climb." George immediately checked his mother's hands, riddled with arthritis.

"I killed Bellatrix Lestrange, I think I'm capable of climbing out of a window."

"Badass Mama Weasley," George chuckled, shaking his head.

"Don't you know it." Her eyes shone in the moonlight. "I've always loved coming up here."

Forgetting about the predicament on how his mother would get down for the moment, he followed her eyes. "It's peaceful."

"It's something we've always needed what with all you kids running mad around the house."

"We kept you on your toes."

"I'm not a bloody ballerina."

George snorted. Knowing better than to fall into her trap of responding, he diverted the conversation. "Why's Charlie coming?"

"He wanted to come and see everyone, he's taken a week off from work. Just in time for Percy's birthday party."

"Need a present for him? I've got a whoopee cushion underwear waiting for you."

Molly patted George's hand. "Between you and me I think Victoire got him that already thanks to Bill."

"Mum, I...about the other day, I'm sorry." He kept his eyes on the stars as he spoke, absorbing the energy from the world around him. "I shouldn't have snapped at you like that, but…I'm glad I said something. I…"

His mouth shut. Words he had said to his father, words that had spiralled in his mind for years blowing in a fury, raging to get out. But he didn't know how. He had never had problems with communication before, never had experienced the dryness of his mouth and the muscles in his face tightening, preventing him from talking.

"I've been so disappointed in you George."

Blue eyes shut at the statement. It did not come as a surprise, he knew how his mother felt, how all of his family felt at watching him wither away and submit to animalistic urges. Hearing it was like a hot dagger twisting his heart and spreading poison through his blood.

"But I've been such a terrible mother, how can I possibly blame you for how you've been acting."

"Mum?"

"I'm the one who should be sorry, George. Ever since Fred died," her voice went quiet at the admission, she exhaled shakily. "I haven't been caring for you like I should have been, like a good mum should have been. I thought demanding you to do things, to sort yourself out, to eat and get dressed without any support or reasoning was going to get you into your usual routine again. I overlooked how you were feeling, how your usual routine involved Fred in every single way. I remember when you used to fight over the last pastry at breakfast when your dad decided to treat us, and when you forgot whose clothes belonged to who because you always shared them.

"I couldn't look at you. I couldn't address you as George, _my_ George. I was so afraid, of so much. Of calling you Fred, or…seeing Fred." She let out a watery chuckle. "That sounds so stupid but I looked for any excuse I could. I would rather have ignored you and your pain and just carried on being mum to seven kids. What kind of a mother does that?"

"Don't." He couldn't hear any more of it, refused to listen to his mother berate herself for grieving over her fallen child. That was her right, who was he to chastise her for it? But he had, leaving a bitter aftertaste. "You lost Fred too, mum. You were his mum."

"And I'm still yours," she said. "And yet I still treated you as if you had no right to be hurt. We should have worked through it together. It's my duty as your mother to help you."

Her breath caught at the end, choking on a sob. George put his arm around her, pulling her small form into his side as she wept into his shirt.

"Look at me," her voice, muffled through the fabric and the cotton in her throat, was derisive.

"I've spent the last five years grieving and getting over it, mum," he said, stroking her hair. "Now it's your turn to stop watching over me and let him go."

"My boy…"

This was the moment they both had been pushing away, the acceptance of Fred's death and moving on. George was willing to be the rock for his mother now, listening to her cry over her son and his twin in the smallest way to alleviate his shame and sins. For the past five years he had forced himself into ignoring the absence of Fred, filling his space with others, people he had wrongfully disrespected and hurt. He hadn't meant to – Merlin, he would never consciously do such a thing.

So he drank for the excuses, pushing his appalling behaviour onto something immaterial and lifeless. His family and friends hadn't bought it, had tried to help him but he had shoved them all aside. Seeing them all linked to Fred. He had needed someone new, a change with no association to his late brother.

But his mother, forced so live in a prison of memories where every corner held a story. She had maintained a firm façade for her children and grandchildren, not enabling them to witness her crumble into a heap. She had cried at first, of course. But like the drawbridge of a castle she had pulled herself away, locking her pain to herself while looking after everyone else.

George did blame her partly for his own mistakes, how could he not? They were both at fault, and he was an adult who needed to learn for himself how shit life could be. And yet, he chose to behave like a child and point fingers and accusations at the easiest victim, the one who appeared least affected, and the one who had moved on the quickest. Had he known his mother had not properly mourned, was too heartbroken to accept the fact that she would never see one of her children again until the day she died, he might have been more lenient. But how was he to know?

"I love you, George, and don't you ever forget that."

He blinked up at the stars, willing the tears away. "I love you, too, mum. I'm sorry for being such a crappy son."

"I forgave you long ago, love."

A few moments passed before Molly's tears passed. She stayed in George's arms, listening to his heartbeat.

"We still have a long way to go," she said. "This was just the start."

"It was the hardest part. I want to get better with you."

Pulling his hand to her lips she pressed a kiss to the back.

"We'll leave that for another day. Right now we should be keeping an eye on that girl."

"I want to stay up here for a bit longer," George said as Molly stood and brushed off her clothes. "Call me if she wakes up?"

"Of course. Come down soon, though, your brother should be here any minute. In his twenties and he's still keeping us up late. The nerve!"

George chuckled, watching his mother as she manoeuvred down the wall, ensuring she got in through the window safely.

Looking out at the large moon surrounded by the stars was different now, with the boulder eased off of George, allowing him a stronger sense of serenity.

He didn't stay up on the roof much longer, only a few minutes perhaps when he decided he could do with a drink by the fireplace. If Charlie was up for it, suffering from the dreaded jetlag that not even magical travel could avoid, they could play some Exploding Snap before bed. It was already in the early hours of the morning, but George found he was not eager to go into his room again, not just yet.

He sat in the kitchen with his parents sipping some tea before they got comfortable in the living room to wait for Charlie. George was in the middle of regaling his work week when the blanket on the opposite sofa shuffled.

He kneeled down on the ground before her as her face emerged. Slowly, her eyes opened. "Hey. You alright?"

She sat up, almost knocking George back, his hands managing to catch him.

"Easy! Do you remember what happened?"

Pushing the blankets away she lifted her shirt off and inspected the bandage around her ribs. Almost immediately she scratched away at it until George stilled her hands.

"No, no, no, no – don't do that. The skin is probably still tender. Just breathe and calm down. Look, your cat is here."

It had been snuggled up between her and the back of the couch as she slept, waking up as soon as it felt her movement. Now, it watched her, nuzzling its head onto her arm. Her hand stroked its little head, trailing down its back, its spine curving under her.

With a few more reassuring words and his hand gripping one of hers, she calmed down.

Arthur crouched beside George.

"I'm Arthur, George's father. He brought you here when you got hurt. Is there anything I can get you? Some water, perhaps?"

George was ready to tell his father that there was no point in asking her anything, she never responded and was probably deaf. He was left surprised when after looking at him through her hair she slowly nodded. Instead of magically getting her a glass of water Arthur went to the kitchen himself. Her hands were shaking when she went to grab it, gulping it down when it was safe in both hands.

"You need a good, long shower," Molly said from behind George. "Come on, now, there are some clothes you can borrow."

With little urging, she took Molly's hand and followed her upstairs, the cat at her heels.

"Should I…?" George started, staring at the spot where his mother and their quest had disappeared.

"No, son. You just sit tight."

A booming voice was heard from outside. It seemed Charlie was back. He greeted Arthur, asking about the whereabouts of Molly while completely missing George.

"Did you wait long? Bloody Ministry sent a faulty portkey the first time and it took them ages to get a replacement, and even that one took me to Leicester – Leicester! Can you believe that?" Charlie raged. The creaking of the sofa springs sinking under his weight bled through the room.

"You be sure to file in a complaint, now," Arthur said.

"Ey, Georgie!" Charlie sprung up off the couch and engulfed his brother in a hug. "Good to see you! Aw, how nice of you to come and see me."

"Alright, mate, ease off. I'm not one of your bloody dragons that you need to manhandle," George clapped Charlie on the back before breaking their embrace.

"Habits, eh?"

"Anything to eat, Charlie?" Arthur asked.

"Thanks, dad, but I can manage. As long as the cheese pasties are still where they should be."

George nodded his head, indicating towards the kitchen.

"Want me to get it for your fat arse?" he asked.

"And a beer. I know dad still has some of that muggle stuff hidden." Charlie sent a knowing glance to his father.

"Dad?"

"No, I'm alright, son. Should be heading off to bed soon."

He arrived with a tray, finding Charlie sprawled across the sofa with his arms over the back, his head tilted back. He nudged him with his foot.

"Stiff neck, sorry."

As they sat down, the two began to eat, Charlie telling of his disastrous journey in more detail and even going further as to explain the arduous experience of getting time off of work at the end of August and the relevant transport.

They sipped at their beers once their pasties were finished. The creaking of the stairs called for their attention, and Charlie jumped off to greet his mother with a bear hug.

"Oh-ho, Charlie! How good to see you," Molly kiss his cheek as a figure stood behind her.

The shower had done her good. She was in some different clothes, old things of Ginny's that she had outgrown but Molly had never gotten rid of, a habit she had failed to change. Her skin had a glow to it, although still partially grey and sunken in. George was surprised he could see her face at all. Dark, wet hair had been brushed back. This was the first time George had a complete glimpse of her.

"Er, sorry. Didn't mean to interrupt. Who's this mum?" Charlie nervously rubbed the back of his reddening neck.

She floundered, desperately searching for a decent answer when there was none that would not end up with loads of questions. Then again, they had lots of questions for her. Whether or how she would answer them was unknown.

Charlie dropped his hand, peering into her face as she looked away, as if hiding behind hair that was no longer in the way to protect her. He gasped.

"Iris?"

* * *

**AN: Dear Guest, if you are still reading this I'd like to respond to your review. If not, to anyone reading this who had similar views, I hope you get something out of this. **

**The reason for the depiction of girls in that particular chapter (chapter 3), was that although this story is written in the third person, it is still primarily focused from George's perspective and his thoughts. No, I don't think he was brought up thinking so appallingly of women, but he was recollecting that particular incident in a stage of his life where he isn't sure of himself, or anything for that matter. As well as that, a controversial notion is that the narrator is independent of the protagonist, even if they are telling the story from the perspective of the character. This makes them unreliable, and some things are presented in such a way that they may not be meant to. **

**For examples, Big Boobs, may not have had massively huge breasts. She may have been a large bodied woman, thus enhancing her bosom, but that was not mentioned because adult George who is traumatised by the death of his twin, the one who has resorted to losing himself in the anonymous identities of random women, would have remembered that particular aspect and maybe even altered it to his liking. Charlie may not have been a huge arsehole to his girlfriends. **

**You were offended, I get that. And I'm sorry that chapter made you angry. But in all honesty, it was necessary for George's progression. I hope his talk with Molly helped explain this somewhat. If not, I will definitely be exploring it in future chapters.**

**Thank you. **


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